Notorious Lord, Compromised Miss. ANNIE BURROWS
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finally made contact.
Satin cushions. He inwardly groaned when the moment came. Firm, yet yielding, and utterly, perfectly formed… Who could have foretold that coming to Almack’s could have resulted in an encounter of such exquisite sensuality?
A tide of crimson surged up the back of the girl’s neck, telling him that she was aware it was a person, and not the wall, that she had just backed into. Her whole body stiffened; she straightened up and drew in a sharp breath. The kind of breath that all too often—he knew from his experience with his sisters—presaged the utterance of the kind of ear-piercing shriek that was the very last noise any female ought to be making in the entrance lobby of Almack’s.
And he did what he would have done to prevent any of his sisters from making an exhibition of herself. He clapped one hand over her mouth, effectively silencing her scream before it began, and, as a further precautionary measure, flung one arm about her waist, pinning her arms to her sides so that she could not go dashing off and accusing him of, well, at the very least, of cowering behind a pot plant like some kind of maladjusted schoolboy!
“Think twice before you do anything that might be construed as causing a scene, miss,” he murmured softly into her ear, a delicate, shell-like structure, he noted absently, entirely devoid of ornament. “Just calm down, and then—” He winced as she kicked him in the shins. Though her feet were shod only in dainty satin slippers, she had a kick like a mule. So he tightened his hold, pulling her close and spreading his legs so that she was in no position to kick him again.
“Hold still!” he hissed into the cap of dark, sweetly scented curls that were tickling his nose, when she began wriggling like an eel. He had saved his shins, but oh Lord! That softly cushioned rear, rubbing so energetically against his loins, was proving far more dangerous.
The sight of her bottom had been interesting. The feel of it, delightful. But the wriggle…damn but that was beginning to make him downright uncomfortable. His breeches were not cut to deal with that amount of strain.
He was almost grateful when she stamped on his foot, giving him a valid reason for letting her go. Muttering an oath beneath his breath, he braced himself for the aftermath. She was bound to slap his face—or worse, faint—if she did not simply run screaming into the ballroom, complaining that there was a pervert lurking behind a plant in the lobby, grabbing unwary females.
Thus putting an end to his career as a fortune hunter before it had even begun.
A liberating sense of succumbing to the inevitable washed over him. Perhaps a short spell in debtor’s prison would not be so very bad. He could even see himself surviving a lengthy spell of incarceration. Somehow. For it would not be a life sentence. No, he could get out of prison. An unhappy marriage, though…
And that was when he realized that the girl, far from running, or fainting or screaming, was standing ramrod straight, exactly where he had released her.
As though frozen to the spot.
“Please,” he implored her in an urgent undertone. “Just run along now, there’s a good girl.”
As though his words had released her from a spell, she whirled round, to glare up at him through narrowed green eyes.
“You cannot make me!” she said.
Extremely quietly.
Viscount Maldon was impressed. The girl had enough sense to realize that the last thing either of them needed was to draw attention to their encounter.
But if she did not want to be compromised, why was she not taking this opportunity to flee from him?
“What game are you playing?” he asked, his curiosity thoroughly roused.
“I am not playing!” she retorted.
“Then what are you doing?”
“I should have thought it was obvious, I am doing the same as you.”
He doubted very much whether she had a list of prospective suitors in her pocket, particularly since the voluminous gown she wore did not appear to have any pockets.
When it became clear to her that she was a complete puzzle to him, she rolled her eyes in exasperation and explained.
“Hiding!” She then placed her hands on her hips. “And if you were a gentleman, you would remove yourself. At once!”
He glanced warily in the direction of the ballroom before shaking his head. He was not ready to step out from behind the pillar that supported the potted plant. Not in any sense!
“Not a chance.” Then he folded his arms across his chest in what he hoped was a forbidding manner, and added for good measure, “Besides, I was here first.”
She gasped. “Not only are you clearly not a gentleman, but—” she paused, and he could see that she was reaching inside herself for something suitably cutting to say that would slay him on the spot “—you are a coward! Yes, and, and—” she ran her eyes up and down his person, as though seeking inspiration. “A puny one,” she flung at him in triumph, “at that!”
“Puny!” He drew himself up to his full height, and threw out his chest. “I am not in the least bit puny. I may be slender, but,” he pointed out, “what there is of me is exceptionally muscular.”
“Huh,” she replied, rubbing at her arms. “You could not hold me captive for long!”
“Indeed not,” he replied with an unholy grin, recalling exactly why he had let her go. Simply recalling how arousing that wholly unexpected tussle had been was making his breeches grow tight all over again. Just when he had begun to think her sharp tongue might serve as an antidote to the power of her lush curves. “It is not at all the sort of activity the patronesses encourage within these hallowed walls.”
“No.” She shuddered. “All the groping and lusting is supposed to occur on that dance floor—” she grimaced, turning to peep through the fronds of the palm “—in full view. And in there, I have not the liberty to kick anyone in the shins.” She finished wistfully, “I have to be polite to elderly widowers on the lookout for a nanny for their six motherless children, and smile at all the grubby fortune hunters with roving hands and a desperate gleam in their eyes.”
Until that point, the insults she had been flinging at him had bounced straight off. But that one found its mark.
“Don’t you think, perhaps you are being a little harsh?” he argued. “I mean, possibly fortune hunters look desperate because they are desperate. Perhaps they are on the brink of utter ruin, through no fault of their own. Perhaps the last thing they wish to be doing is looking for a bride. Can you not imagine what a young man might feel like, having been raised in expectations of living life as a carefree bachelor, to be suddenly confronted by the choice between debtor’s prison or marrying without affection, without respect, without any criteria other than that his bride should have money?”
“I would not be a bit surprised,” she observed thoughtfully, glancing over her shoulder at him, “to learn that it might make them feel like hiding behind a potted plant. But—” she whirled round to face him fully, her expression turning mutinous “—they do not have to be quite so oily and insincere, do they? Telling me I’ve captivated their hearts after only one turn round the dance floor! Do I look like a complete imbecile to you? Do I?”
He had already decided that this young lady had a mind like quicksilver. And yet, some devil in him had him drawing out his quizzing glass and inspecting her from head to toe. Her gown, he noted at once, had not been made by a London modiste. The billowing effect that had made her stealthy retreat from the ballroom so utterly entrancing was entirely due to its poor fit. Her figure, he had already determined, was perfectly proportioned to fit in his arms. And her face…well, the nose was a little short, the mouth a little too wide, and her eyes were shooting the kind of sparks that denoted a fiery temper. And yet, the combination of less-than-perfect features somehow rendered the whole remarkably attractive.
“Just