A Dangerous Temptation (Bow Street Brides Book 5) Page 5

  As if anchored to the ground by some invisible force they continued to stare at each other, neither one willing to be the first to look away. Hawke, sensing the tension radiating in the air, grunted something unintelligible under his breath and lumbered away, leaving Tobias swathed in shadows and Amelia teetering dangerously close.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked softly. “Are you a thief?”

  He smirked at the mere suggestion. “No, Duchess. I’m not a thief.”

  “A Runner, then.” Her gaze brightened. “I knew it.”

  Perceptive, his Duchess.

  Except she isn’t yours, he reminded himself harshly. Kiss or no kiss, she isn’t even close to being yours.

  But seeing her in the dark with moonlight in her hair and the ocean in her eyes it was easy to imagine that she did belong to him.

  His Lady of the Night.

  His Duchess of Darkness.

  The things he’d do to her if they were alone…

  “Aye.” He cleared his throat. “I’m a Runner. How did ye know?”

  “It was how you looked at me when you first woke inside the carriage.”

  He abandoned the pillar and took a step towards her, the tips of his boots pressing up against the thin line that separated shadow from light. “And how was that?” he said huskily, his voice wrapping around her like a rough velvet caress. They were standing as close as propriety would allow, and it still wasn’t close enough. Until he had her in his arms again it would never be close enough.

  “The same way you’re looking at me now,” she whispered. Her countenance paled save a faint pink flush in the middle of her cheeks. She slid her tongue across her bottom lip and it was all Tobias could do not to groan. “As if you don’t know whether you want to hurt me or kiss me.”

  In that moment, he truly didn’t know.

  With him, pain and passion were one and the same. If he kissed Amelia again, he would end up hurting her. There wasn’t a question. There wasn’t a doubt. She was everything shiny and bright in the world while he…he was all that was broken and dim. She was a princess who had been raised in a golden tower. He was a devil who had done things that would make her turn from him in fear and revulsion. They were completely opposite. Not only that, they were completely wrong.

  And still…and still he wanted her. Even knowing how quickly it could turn – how quickly it would turn, given half the chance – he wanted her. He wanted her more than he’d wanted anything in a very, very long time. So long that he’d forgotten what it felt like.

  To want. To need. To desire something other than darkness and death and destruction.

  For too many years the only driving force in his life had been revenge. It had become his wife, his mistress, his lover. There hadn’t been room for anything or anyone else. Which was precisely how he’d preferred it…until a sharp-tongued goddess struck him with her carriage and he’d woken to the most captivatingly blue eyes he’d ever seen. And he had forgotten, however temporarily, about the demons that haunted him.

  But no matter how captivating her eyes or how tantalizing her kiss, there could be no future between them. There couldn’t even be a present. Not unless he was willing to sacrifice his quest for vengeance…and destroy Amelia in the process.

  She was a beautiful distraction he couldn’t afford and one he didn’t deserve. Not after the things he’d done. Not after the sins he’d committed. Amelia was bound for heaven, but he…he was already damned to hell. And he wasn’t about to drag her down with him.

  Pulling out the brass flask he’d started to carry with him wherever he went, he took a bracing swallow of whiskey before shoving it back inside his long overcoat. “Go find your marquis,” he growled, eyes glinting from the self-restraint it was taking not to push her against the pillar, slide his fingers into that silky mane of blonde hair, and ravish her so thoroughly she wouldn’t even know her own name when it was done. “Before I do something we’ll both regret.”

  “I wouldn’t.” She pressed her palm against his chest. A fleeting touch that was there and gone again before anyone could see. Jaw clenching, Tobias looked down at the spot where she’d touched him, half expecting to see a mark seared upon his flesh.

  “You wouldn’t what?” he rasped.

  “Regret it.” Then she was gone in a flurry of skirts, racing up the stairs and into the light while Tobias remained cloaked in the shadows with his demons.

  Right where he belonged.

  Chapter Four

  The ball was a complete bore, but then Amelia had expected nothing less.

  Once she’d looked forward to an evening of dancing and socializing ahead with anticipation instead of dread. Once she’d gazed upon the beautiful gowns and glittering lights with wonder. Once she’d been thrilled to fill her dance card. But those feelings of awe and excitement had begun to dwindle by her second season, and by the third they had vanished entirely, leaving behind a vague sense of dissatisfaction tempered with annoyance.

  Now she didn’t feel sorry for the wallflowers sitting beside the potted ferns, their shoulders drooped and their eyes downcast. Now she envied them just as she suspected they envied her, for wasn’t that the most ironic twist of all? To desire what you didn’t have. To yearn for a life different than the one that had been given to you. To dream of a dangerous, dark-haired Irishman when you were surrounded by self-absorbed lords.

  “…and then I finally landed a beautiful brown trout, which leads me to believe that it is not only important to know which fly to use when angling, but to know the best way to tie it. I, of course, know how to do both.” Lord Wagner, an avid outdoorsman who loved fishing almost as much as he loved himself, lifted a bushy black brow as he waited for Amelia’s reply.

  “You don’t say,” she murmured. “How utterly fascinating.”

  His chest swelled. “Indeed. Would you care for another glass of lemonade, my lady?”

  “Only if it has champagne in it.”

  “I’m sorry, I fear I did not quite catch that.”

  Amelia smiled sweetly. “Yes, lemonade would be lovely.”

  As soon Lord Wagner had turned his back she made her escape. Squeezing between two starry-eyed debutantes who were gazing rapturously at the Marquis of Davenport as he made his rounds, she glanced left and then right to ensure her mother wasn’t watching before darting through a partially open door and out onto the rear terrace.

  Surrounded by a wrought iron fence, the terrace wrapped around the entire back of the manor with steps leading down to the gardens. Here the lights were dim and the shadows plentiful, allowing intimate conversations for those who wished to escape the mayhem of the ballroom. Closing her eyes, Amelia relaxed her shoulders and drew in a deep lungful of cool night air before wandering to the far corner of the terrace, well out of sight of the door and anyone who might come through it looking for her.

  Crickets chirped in the garden beyond, their cheerful summer symphony causing the corners of her mouth to lift as she sat down on the end of a stone bench and gazed up at the moon. When she was a child her governess told her the moon was made of cheese. She’d believed it – young and impressionable, she’d had no reason to doubt the woman she saw more than her own mother – but then she also used to believe in true love, so what was a bit of cheese when compared to that particular fallacy?

  True love.

  Amelia’s smile faded as she leaned back against the fence, spine pressing into one of the metal bars. With every passing Season it seemed further and further out of reach. At this point true love might as well have been as far away as the moon, for she was just as likely to reach up and touch its silvery surface as she was to find a man who loved her and not her dowry.

  No suitor had ever been bold enough to come right out and say as much, but she knew by the way they looked at her. As if she were a possession instead of a person. A broodmare to carry their precious lineage onto the next generation instead of an equal partner. A pretty trinket to set high on a shelf instead of
an independent, free-thinking woman with her own dreams and desires.

  There was only one man who truly saw her. Only one man who looked at her and didn’t see a dowry or a duke, but a woman. A woman who wanted more out of life than to wear pretty dresses and attend balls and pretend she was happy when it was clear to anyone who cared to peer beneath the surface of her brittle smile that she’d never been more miserable.

  If only Kent were a marquis or an earl. Even a well to-do doctor might have sufficed. But he wasn’t. He was a Runner. And it was the definition of irony that the only man she’d ever wanted was the one man forbidden to her.

  A Runner.

  She shook her head in disbelief, hardly able to believe her initial suspicions had been confirmed. What would her parents do if they discovered she had kissed a Bow Street Runner? What would her mother do?

  It was almost worth telling them just to see what shade of purple the Duchess of Webley’s face would turn. Eggplant, she assumed, although she had never gotten it past periwinkle after she’d refused the suit of a duke old enough to be her father.

  They’d be absolutely horrified and appalled. Of that she was absolutely certain. And if they didn’t marry her outright to the first nobleman who would have her then they’d whisk her away to the countryside and she’d never see her Runner again.

  Her Runner.

  Amelia bit her lip as a trickle of heat spread between her thighs in a slow, dewy trickle. She knew Kent wasn’t hers, nor could he ever be. Their worlds were too different. They were too different. But it still felt right to think of him that way. Just like it had felt right when he’d kissed her.

  When his mouth claimed hers it hadn’t mattered that she was the daughter of a duke and he was a Runner. In those heart pounding moments of lip-tingling bliss they hadn’t been defined by the roles society had given them, but by their passion for each other. The same passion that had woken her every night since, her body warm and flush, her pulse racing, her eyes staring helplessly at the ceiling until sleep eventually reclaimed her. And when it did, she dreamt of him.

  She dreamt of his sleek ebony mane. She dreamt of his eyes and the way they’d pierced straight through her until it felt as if he were touching her soul. She dreamt of his hands on her body, his rough, calloused fingers gliding down her arms and anchoring at her hips. She dreamt of his mouth, those hard lips curled in a sneer. Then, just as dawn broke and color unraveled across the sky like a spool of orange thread come undone, she dreamt of his kiss. And what might happen if their paths ever happened to cross again.

  Then she’d arrived at the ball and walked up the steps and there he was, looking exactly as she’d remembered. Lean and surly with a touch of wildness in his gaze, like a wolf half-starved. But she was no cowering rabbit, and she hadn’t been intimidated by the threat of his bite.

  She’d been excited by it.

  “Lady Amelia, I say, are you out here?”

  Without warning Amelia’s dream turned into a nightmare when she heard the unmistakably nasally voice of Lord Charles Newman, Earl of Reinhold. He’d been hounding her since she was announced, and when she saw his long shadow ripple across the stone she gave serious contemplation to flinging herself over the edge of the railing into the bushes. A few scratches would have been vastly preferable to Reinhold’s company, but before she could make her escape he appeared around the corner and stopped short at the sight of her sitting on the bench, his perfect teeth flashing in a perfect smile.

  Tall and broad shouldered with blond hair and gray eyes, the Earl of Reinhold was the quintessential British lord. In addition to being athletic and charming, he was well versed in the arts, could hold a conversation about more than the weather, and didn’t boast overmuch. He was the sort of gentleman other men wished they could be and women wished they could marry. Except for Amelia, who had never liked his eyes. Cool and flat, they’d always reminded her of a fish.

  Or an eel.

  “There you are. Someone said they saw you come out onto the terrace.” He turned the golden pin sticking through the middle of his cravat until the large ruby on the end was facing outwards in what Amelia could only imagine he thought to be a subtle display of wealth.

  It wasn’t.

  “Lord Reinhold,” she acknowledged, not making any attempt to disguise her grimace. “I came out for a breath of fresh air. Alone.”

  Unfortunately, as proven by the ostentatious brooch hanging from his cravat, subtlety wasn’t exactly the earl’s strong point.

  “Indeed,” he said, even as his tone implied he could have cared less. “Now that you’ve gotten your breath of air, my lady, would you allow me the pleasure of accompanying you back inside?”

  “No, I believe I’d like to remain right where I am.” The heel of her foot began to tap an impatient cadence against the ground. “I hope you have a pleasant rest of your evening, Lord Reinhold.”

  “Lady Amelia,” he scolded with a playful wag of his finger. “If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were trying to get rid of me.”

  “Yes. That is precisely what I am trying to do.”

  Reinhold’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “If I recall, you promised me a dance.”

  Amelia had done nothing of the sort, and they both knew it. “No,” she said, lifting a haughty brow. “I do not believe I did. Please leave, my lord. I don’t wish to be rude, but I would really prefer to be by myself.”

  Instead he moved closer, leaning against the wrought iron fence and angling his body to give her a full (and very much unwanted) view of his nether regions whether she wanted it or not. Which she definitely, absolutely, positively did not. Biting the inside of her cheek to curb a snide remark, she shot to her feet and backed away.

  “How can I make myself any clearer?” she wondered out loud. “Go away, Lord Reinhold.”

  “Do you still think about our kiss?” His eyes gleamed like a tarnished shilling in the muted light. “Because I do.”

  “I don’t,” Amelia said flatly.

  Acquiescing to Reinhold’s kiss – and thus encouraging his unwanted favor – was one of her biggest regrets. But she had been young, and curious, and when he’d pinned her out on a terrace very much like this one she’d been foolish enough to give him permission for what she thought was going to be a soft, sweet kiss not unlike the ones she’d read about in the Gothic romance novels she kept hidden under her mattress.

  She’d ended up with a mouthful of wet, slimy tongue instead. The memory still made her shudder, which was why she’d been very firm about him not kissing her a second time. When he’d tried – the earl was nothing if not persistent – she had stomped on his foot. That had been their last interaction until tonight, when he’d approached her within moments of her arrival and asked to place his name on her card. She’d refused and Reinhold had gracefully bowed out, leaving her to believe he had finally given up on trying to court her.

  She really ought to have known better. Men like Reinhold – pampered brats all who didn’t seem to understand the meaning of the word ‘no’– did not give up easily. As the earl was currently demonstrating by his refusal to leave her alone.

  “I remember it very well.” His smile widened. “You are a stunning woman, Lady Amelia.”

  “What do you want, Lord Reinhold?” Exasperation filled her voice. “In case it was not clear by the fact that you found me sitting by myself in the dark, I came out here to escape presumptuous lords like yourself who seem to find great difficulty in comprehending that not every woman is interested in them! A hard fact to accept given the size of your ego, I’m sure, but I have always believed anyone can accomplish anything if they just set their mind to it.” She mimed two fingers walking across her palm. “Now off you go. One foot in front of the other. ‘Tis truly not that difficult.”

  The earl chuckled. “I like a woman who plays hard to get.”

  All things considered, she really should have jumped in the bushes.

  “Am I going to have to trod on
your instep again?” Amelia glanced meaningfully down at the silk slipper peeking out from beneath the green folds of her gown. She’d felt bad the first time she stomped on Reinhold’s foot. Now she regretted not stomping down harder. “Because I playing hard to get, my lord. I am saying, unequivocally, that I am not, have never been, nor will ever be interested in you.”

  “Lady Amelia, you wound me.” The earl staggered back a step, one hand pressed dramatically over his heart. “But then, I’ve always been drawn to strong-willed women. My worst flaw, I’m afraid.”

  She didn’t bother to disguise her unladylike snort. “I can assure you I can think of several flaws worse than that. The hour has grown late and I fear my patience has grown short, thus I am going to be very blunt. Go away, Lord Reinhold, and do not return.”

  Instead of going away, however, he had the audacity to come closer. “You don’t mean that,” he murmured, reaching out to brush a loose tendril behind her ear. Jerking her head back, Amelia stared at him in disbelief.

  “I can assure you I most certainly do.”

  “No,” he said with the confidence of a man who was accustomed to always getting what he wanted. “You don’t. No one will see us, Amelia. No one will know if we have one little kiss.” He leaned in close enough for her to smell his breath, a mixture of arrogance and brandy. “You owe me that much for the poor way you treated me the last time we were alone together.”

  “Do you mean when you tried to force yourself upon me, just like you’re doing now?” she said sharply. “I should have done more than tread on your foot, Lord Reinhold. Your boorish behavior is beyond the pale. If you refuse to leave, then I will.”

  But when she tried to walk past him he stopped her, grabbing onto her wrist with one hand while the other wrapped around her waist and yanked her against his chest in an embrace similar to the one she’d shared with Kent. Except when she glared up into his cold, flat blue eyes she felt revulsion instead of passion.

  “Let go of me at once,” she hissed furiously, “or I shall scream.”