Frovtunes’ Kiss (9 page)

The leaded casements dug into her spine as she tried to shrink from that dreadful, hairy, revolting creature creeping along Graham Foster's coat sleeve.

And yet…
.he
regarded it as calmly as you please. He even—ugh, Moira looked away, then couldn't help peeking—allowed the monster to crawl into his palm.

“Letty, do stop that infernal shrieking,” he said with a weary roll of his eyes. “Isis is merely an African sun spider. She's quite harmless, completely tame, and certainly nothing to warrant permanently deafening the lot of us.”

Letitia's mouth closed. She stared. Blinked. Swallowed with a gulp that echoed through the room. “Isis?” she whispered. “It has a
name?
It's a
pet?”

“Of course, she's a pet.” He smoothly deposited the creature into his coat pocket. “And I'd thank you not to terrify her in the future.”

Letitia's head wobbled slightly as she nodded.

With an expression that made her spine tingle, Graham Foster's attention returned in full measure to Moira. “Now then, Miss Hughes, perhaps you'd care to explain why you've rearranged my study in this most charming manner? And why you're masquerading as a maid in my employ? Or have you, indeed, joined my staff?”

Before Moira could answer, Miss Foster pivoted to glare at her. “Better she saves her explanations for the magistrate. I'll have Mrs. Higgensworth send for one
immediately
. “

“If you'll allow me, Miss Foster.” The houseguest pulled himself up with a flourish that might have made Moira laugh under different circumstances. “It would be my pleasure to be of service.”

“Hm.” Miss Foster regarded him down the length of her slender nose. “Yes, Mr. Paddington, thank you. Do hurry.”

“There's no reason to summon anyone,” Graham Foster said, but too late. His friend had set off at an eager trot. He glowered at his sister, who produced a self-satisfied shrug.

“Leave us, Letty,” her brother commanded. When she pouted and voiced a protest, he ignored her and turned to his brother, who had all but disappeared into the wallpaper at the far end of the room. “You, too, Freddy. Finish sobering up. Letty, did Mother accompany you home?”

“Mama's still at the museum, I suppose.” The young woman tossed her curls. “I grew bored staring at all your relics, Monteith, so I begged a ride home with the Sanfords.”

“Sorry to have disappointed you.” His steely gaze traveled back and forth between his siblings. “Leave us, and don't either of you get into trouble.”

Frederick Foster pushed away from the wall and sauntered into the corridor. His sister followed, after flinging one last derisive look at Moira.

The door closed behind the pair, leaving her quite alone with their perplexing older brother.

Yes, most perplexing, indeed. He stood staring at her, his arms folded across his chest. His dimples taunted while an infuriating half smile played about his lips. He strolled out of Moira's vision, and a moment later she heard the familiar creaking of the desk chair.

“Well, Moira Hughes, won't you come out from that recess?”

She much preferred not to. The very suggestion emphasized the utter foolishness of her behavior. Her maid's uniform didn't help. The plain blue dress and starched apron smoothed away individuality and all the grace of femininity, leaving only the drudgery and burdens of being female. And in this instance, it lent Graham Foster one more seeming advantage over her, besides the obvious fact that she had trespassed in his home.

But with a deep breath she raised her chin and remembered who she was. Moira Hughes, stepdaughter—no,
daughter
—of the late Everett Foster, Lord Monteith, and every bit as good as the man confronting her. She walked out from the embrasure and stood tall before the desk.

It was a large block of carved mahogany, dark, imposing, impressive. Or so she'd always thought. Graham Foster almost dwarfed it. Even sitting, he met her eye levelly and made her feel small and defenseless and very much alone.

Through the window behind him, slanting sunshine burnished the top of his head. He was all golden light, deep shadow, and brilliant smile as he regarded her.

A devil in a halo. She must not forget what he'd done, how her mother had suffered loss upon loss because of this man. Estella Foster had been not only widowed—well, not his fault—but thrown out of her home—most assuredly his fault—within a few short months.

“Now then, Miss Hughes.” He closed two of the books she'd left open on the desk, moved them aside, and leaned forward, his face expectant and still so damnably amused. “What have you to say for yourself?”

The scoundrel made her feel like a child. Saw her vulnerability and made full use of it. Holding her chin steady when it wanted to slink into her collar, she mustered the dignity of knowing she, in truth, was the injured party here. “What I have to say, my lord, you might not like to hear.”

He held up the flat of his hand. “I'd much prefer you not call me
my lord.”

“Very well, then, Mr. Foster—”

“Will you not call me Graham?”

“Most assuredly not.”

“Because I'd like to call you Moira.” Again that grin, those dimples. And that unsettling sensation that traveled through her and curled tight in her belly.

“You may not, sir.” She squared her shoulders and glowered, then wished she hadn't displayed any emotion at all when his eyes flashed with mocking humor.

“A pity.” He sighed, compressed his lips, and made a show of appearing uncertain. “Tell me, Miss Hughes, have I again departed the dictates of propriety?”

“You don't need me to tell you that, Mr. Foster.”

“Perhaps not.” He slid closed several gaping desk drawers. Before closing the topmost one, he reached into his coat pocket and dropped something—she could only assume that it was the repulsive spider—inside. After shutting the drawer gently, he flattened his palms to the desktop and pushed to his feet. His amusement melted away as he circled the desk, and with it went the boyish impertinence she'd come to associate with him. Suddenly he was every inch a lord, and very much in command.

She wanted to back away, thought with longing of the safety of her window recess. He came closer despite her willing him to stop a suitable distance away. He filled her vision. She had to look up and up to see the top of his sun-kissed head while the room disappeared behind the broad, hard curve of his shoulders. Waiting, she drew an unsteady breath that filled her with the taste of him, warm and exotic, a sun-drenched wilderness.

“What I need,” he said when they stood nearly toe to toe, “is for you to tell me why you're here and what it is you want of me, Moira Hughes.”

Goose bumps rose at the sound of her name, spoken in rumbling notes that grazed her lips and cheeks like a lover's gentle kiss. It left her trembling, confused. Frightened. How could the man make her feel seized and kissed without ever laying a hand upon her?

Abandoning subtlety and even pride, she backed a step away. So what if he deduced her need for safety? This man bewildered and alarmed her. His effect on her called for extreme measures.

She looked him directly in the eye. “I want what's mine and my mother's, Mr. Foster. Nothing less will suffice.”

“You believe I have something of yours?”

“I do, Mr. Foster. And before I leave, I mean to have it.”

He leaned closer still—much too close—and raised his hand to the sensitive skin beneath her chin. His fingertips barely skimmed her, yet commanded every nerve in her body to quiver at attention. “What makes you think, my dear cousin Moira, that I'll allow you to leave?”

Before she could form a reply, he tilted her chin and trapped her lips beneath his own.

       6      

S
haun Paddington rushed along the foot pavement until a thought brought him to a dead halt. Where would he find a magistrate? Must he go all the way to Bow Street near Covent Garden? That would take considerable time. Or did every London neighborhood boast such an official, occupying convenient offices identified by bold lettering above the front door?

He glanced up and down the street, detecting nothing but the facades of Mayfair's lavish residences.

He had to admit he'd rushed off without giving the task proper consideration. Perhaps he should go back and seek assistance. But what would Miss Letitia think of him then?

Letitia Foster. Miss Letitia, of the golden brown hair and desert-sky eyes, sleek, willowy, a pharaoh's treasure. She was taller and a little more angular than most women, but he especially liked that about her. He adored the slender silhouette of her hips, the delicate lines of her collarbones, the grace of those long, lean arms. Ah, she fired his every instinct to protect, provide, good heavens, lay down his life.

She irritated Graham, but only because he didn't understand her spirit. He misinterpreted the spark and called it temper. But Shaun saw it—felt it—like the desert sun, bright and glorious and utterly without mercy.

Graham was right about one thing, though. Her name, Letitia, didn't suit her. Not at all. Too fussy and overdone, like hothouse flowers. But Letty—yes, that was pretty, vivacious, full of life. Just like her.

Letty. Let. He could just hear himself. Morning, Let, shall we have a walk, or, Come give us a kiss, my Let
.

Or even, perhaps,
Marry me, Let
.

He groaned. Thus far the girl hadn't shown him the slightest regard. Better he returned to raiding tombs. That's where he was at his best, where he shined. He thoroughly enjoyed fooling sheiks into believing he was the king's ambassador. But with a woman like Letty…Shaun sighed. There could be no pretending.

Where the devil would he find a magistrate?

The king's ambassador. That gave him an idea.

Moira Hughes's lips were all Graham had imagined. Soft, sweet, and as unpracticed as he had expected. And hoped. But certainly not without curiosity. Not without adventure.

He felt her astonishment in a gasp that filled the interior of his mouth. He breathed it in and pressed for more, refusing her time to think. She went as rigid as a startled rabbit, but lingered rather than pulled away. Then her lips moved against his with a shy taste, an exploring nip. No other part of their bodies touched, but even at that, or because of that, he experienced an immediate rise in his trousers.

Knowing she'd at any moment regain her ladylike sensibilities, Graham slipped his tongue into her mouth. He savored a moment of sheer bliss, fiery heaven, sweet sinner's paradise, before she broke away with a shove that resulted in a full stroke of his tongue against the entire length of hers. A lifetime's pleasure in one fell swoop.

Her hand shot up. It started for his face, but then, oddly, fell to her side.

It puzzled him, for he undoubtedly deserved the full force of her lovely hand.

Her eyes glittered volcanic fury. “How
dare
you?”