How to Woo a Reluctant Lady (3 page)

“What decent man will marry me anyway?” As irritated as he, she jerked off her mask. “My family is mired in scandal, and the only men who’ve been sniffing around me during my season are fortune hunters and wastrels.”

Besides, I want only you.

He shot her a sidelong glance. “If that’s true, then you shouldn’t be so eager to heap more scandal upon yourself. We both know how society repays those who flout its rules. You should be trying to redeem your family name.”

Coming from him, that was infuriating. “Like my brothers are doing?” she said bitterly. “Like you are?” They’d reached the back garden of the Plumtree town house, so she had to get the truth out of him
now.
“Why were you stealing those papers, Giles? What are they for?”

A muscle worked in his jaw as he faced her. “You shouldn’t have seen that. And I hope you’ll have the good sense to keep quiet about it.”

“And what if I don’t? What will you do to me?” Her tone thickened with sarcasm. “Stick a knife between my ribs?”

“Very amusing.” His eyes turned calculating in the faint moonlight. “But if you tell anyone about my being there, you’ll have to reveal that
you
were there, and I daresay that’s not something you wish to do. Especially when you’re dressed like . . . like . . .”

When his voice trailed off and his eyes dropped to the cameo resting right in the center of her partially bared bosom, she caught her breath. At last he was seeing her as a woman. “Like what?” she asked, her voice as low and seductive as she knew to make it.

His gaze snapped back to hers. “Like some blowsy tart,” he said tersely. “You don’t want to be caught dressed like that
here.
”

A tart! He thought she looked like a tart? And a blowsy one, at that. “Why not? Because it might destroy my reputation? I doubt it’s even possible to make my situation any worse.”

“You have a dowry—”

“Which only ensures that the wrong sort of men seek me out.” She tipped up her chin. “Besides, you wouldn’t ruin my reputation for spite. I know you wouldn’t. You’re too much a gentleman for that.”

He lifted one eyebrow. “And you wouldn’t watch me hang for stealing. I know you wouldn’t. You’re too much a friend for that.”

If he was trying to soften her up, he was doing a good job. “Ah, but I could mention it to your brother, the viscount,” she pointed out. “I doubt he would approve.”

That seemed to give Giles pause. “And I could mention your little adventure to
your
brothers. I know for a fact that they wouldn’t approve.”

“Go ahead,” she bluffed. “I don’t care what they think.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “So you see, you have only one choice, and that’s to tell me the truth.”

“I have a better idea.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Name your price, Minerva. I don’t earn much as a barrister yet, but I can afford to buy your silence.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” When his lips curved up in a sly smile, she realized he’d only been goading her with his talk of money and prices. “So you absolutely refuse to tell me what you were doing and why.”

He shrugged. “I prefer to keep my secrets.”

And he knew she would keep them, too, drat him, if he
asked it. But that didn’t mean she had to roll over and play dead. “Very well, here’s my price. A kiss.”

That clearly startled him. “A what?”

“A kiss.” Her tone turned sarcastic. “You know, like the ones you and my brothers bestow willy-nilly on every taproom maid, doxy, and opera dancer in your acquaintance. One kiss. To buy my silence.” Perhaps
then
he would see her as a woman he could trust, could court . . . could love.

He raked her body with a long, slow glance, rousing warm feelings in places she’d never felt warm before and setting her pulse racing. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Whyever not?”

“For one thing,” he said drily, “your brothers would skin me alive if they heard of it.”

“Then let’s not tell them.” When he just stood there, she added, “It’s my nineteenth birthday, and I just had a loathsome experience at a scandalous party where two gentlemen discussed sharing me between them.”

At the stormy look that came over his face, she added hastily, “Although I escaped their disgusting advances before they could do anything, I need something nice to help me forget I nearly became a rogue sandwich. And I’m asking you to provide it.”

“What makes you think that a kiss from me would be
nice
?” he asked in a rough murmur that sent delicious shivers skittering down her spine.

She fought to sound as worldly as he. “It had better be, if you want me to keep your secrets.”

To her surprise, he laughed. “Fine, you infernal minx. I’ll meet your price.”

He bent forward and pressed his lips to hers in a kiss that was as brief and disappointing as it was chaste.

When he drew back, she scowled. “Perhaps I should have clarified. By ‘nice,’ I meant ‘satisfying.’ I didn’t mean the sort of kiss you give your grandmother.”

He stared at her. Then an unholy light gleamed in his eyes, and without warning, he cupped her head in his hands and took her mouth again. Except this time his kiss was hard, unforgiving, overpowering. He parted her lips with his tongue, then delved inside her mouth over and over, until her head spun and her knees turned to mush.

In one fell swoop, he shattered her girlishly romantic dreams, replacing them with a wild, seething wanting unlike anything she’d ever known.

It shocked her.

It intoxicated her.

Without thinking, she lifted her arms to twine about his neck. He muttered some curse against her lips, then dragged her flush against him so his mouth could explore hers more thoroughly.

His stubbled chin scraped her cheek, and he smelled of candle smoke and brandy, the combination oddly enticing. This was everything she’d dreamed of. And when his hands then swept up her ribs, he made her yearn for more . . . more caresses, more kisses . . . more of
him.

It was several moments before he drew back to say in a choked voice, “Does that suit your notion of a nice kiss?”

Still reeling from the wonder of his mouth on hers, she gazed up into his handsome face with a dreamy smile. “It was absolutely perfect, Giles.”

He blinked. Then a look of pure alarm crossed his face, and he set her roughly from him. “So I’ve met my obligation?”

Too stunned by that response to do more than nod, she gaped at him, hoping for something to soften the cold word
obligation.

“Good.”

As she watched dumbfounded, he turned to walk away. Then he paused to glance back at her, his eyes now as lazy as his tone was careless. “Do be careful, my dear, next time you decide to act like a doxy. Some men don’t take kindly to blackmail. You might find yourself on your back in an alley. And I doubt you’d enjoy playing the tart in truth.”

The crude words slapped at her pride. He’d seen their kiss as her playing a doxy? Hadn’t he felt the passion sparking between them, the thrill of two souls joining as one? Had he felt
nothing
from the kiss that had changed her forever from a girl into a woman?

Apparently not. He’d thrust his knife deeply enough to pierce her heart.

Somehow she held herself together as he sauntered off down the mews. But once he was out of sight, she burst into tears.

That was the night she fell out of love with Giles Masters.

London
1825

Shortly after dawn, Giles watched from the trees as the Viscount Ravenswood, undersecretary to the Home Office, entered the boathouse on the Serpentine River in Hyde Park. When fifteen minutes had passed and no one else had come along, Giles crossed to the boathouse himself and went inside.

After he and Ravenswood exchanged the usual pleasantries, the viscount said, “I hear you’re being considered for a King’s Counsel.”

Giles tensed. He should have known Ravenswood would find that out. The man had eyes in the back of his head. “So they tell me.”

“I suppose that if you’re selected, you won’t be able to continue your efforts for me.”

“King’s Counsel is a demanding position,” Giles said warily. He hadn’t expected to have this conversation quite so soon.

“And a very prestigious one for a barrister. Not to mention highly political. So pretending to be a scapegrace while you gather information for me won’t be very convenient anymore.”

“Exactly.” He searched Ravenswood’s face, unable to read his stoic expression. “To be honest, whether they choose me as King’s Counsel or not, I’ve decided to stop my work for you. Things are quieter now, and I doubt I would be—”

“No need to explain, Masters. I’m surprised you continued with it this long. You’ve served your country well, with little benefit and even less pay, when you could have focused on your more lucrative position as a barrister. I don’t blame you for thinking that it’s time you consider your own career. You’re what, thirty-seven now? Certainly you’re old enough to want more out of life than doing this. And I’ll support your decision as much as possible.”

Giles released a long breath. He’d been dreading this conversation. But he should have known that Ravenswood would remain his friend no matter what.

He and the viscount had first met at Eton. Though the other man was three years older than Giles, they’d forged an unusual friendship, considering that Ravenswood had been sober and industrious and Giles wild and adventurous.

So it was Ravenswood, already being groomed for politics, whom Giles had turned to nine years ago when he’d burned to see justice done. Ravenswood had taken the documents Giles had stolen from Newmarsh and made good use of them. Thus had begun Giles’s covert association with the Home Office and its role as keeper of the peace.

It had proved fruitful for them both. From time to time, Giles had passed information on to the undersecretary that the man wouldn’t have learned any other way. Men in the stews let all sorts of juicy details slip out around the profligate Giles Masters. After the war, the Home Office had been swamped with cases of fraud, forgery, and even treason, and with different parts of the country on the verge of revolution, it had needed all the help it could get.

Occasionally Giles had actively sought out information, even from fellow noblemen. In return, Ravenswood had given him a reason for living after his father’s suicide. A way to make up for the sins of his youth. But he’d been paying for those sins quite a while now.

“I suppose I don’t need to tell you that your activities must be kept secret even after you’ve . . . er . . . retired,” Ravenswood cautioned him. “You can never discuss it with anyone, never reveal—”

“I know my duty,” Giles broke in.

That was the trouble. It was hard to have a real life when he kept secrets from everyone he knew. He was tired of keeping secrets. Tired of playing the role of hard-living rogue that had suited him once, but didn’t anymore. If he stopped his work for the government now, no one would ever be the wiser, and he could start being more himself. People would assume he’d finally grown up. He could put these days of being an informant for the government behind him.

“This will be my last report,” Giles said. “Will that leave you in any kind of difficulty?”

“As you might imagine, we’ll regret the loss of you. But we’ll manage. And as you say, things are quieter now.”

“Which is why I don’t have much to report.” Giles told him of a magistrate he suspected of taking bribes and of a problem he feared was brewing with investments in South American mining companies.

Ravenswood scribbled notes, asking questions where it was pertinent. When Giles paused, he asked, “Is that all?”

“Almost. There’s that favor I asked of you last month,” Giles said.

“Ah, yes, the one for your friend Jarret Sharpe.” Ravenswood thrust his notebook in his coat pocket. “Thus far, none of
my other informants have the sort of knowledge concerning Desmond Plumtree that you’re looking for. Is it possible that your friend is mistaken in his suspicions?”

Ever since Jarret and Oliver had married, they’d been looking into the deaths of their parents. Jarret had asked Giles for legal advice concerning the matter, and the situation had piqued Giles’s interest.

“As far as I can ascertain from Mrs. Plumtree’s will,” Giles admitted, “Desmond Plumtree had nothing to gain by killing them.”

“Yet that answer doesn’t satisfy you.”

“I can’t explain it, but Plumtree has always rubbed me wrong. If I could suspect anyone of murdering the Sharpes, it would be him.” And Giles hadn’t risen as far as he had in his career as a barrister without paying heed to his instincts.

“Well, I’ll let you know if anyone comes across anything pertinent. Sorry I can’t be of more help than that.” With a sudden twinkle in his eye, Ravenswood reached into his coat and pulled out a newspaper. “On a lighter note, with all your recent interest in the Sharpe family, I couldn’t resist bringing you this.”

Giles took the paper from him, then cast his friend a quizzical glance.
“The Ladies Magazine?”

“It’s my wife’s. Just came out yesterday. She read something to me from it that I thought you’d find amusing. Look at the bottom of page twenty-six.”

He flipped through, then sucked in a breath as he realized that it was the first chapter of Minerva’s latest gothic novel. He hadn’t known it was going to be serialized. “Can I keep this?”

“Certainly. Abby’s already done with it.” Ravenswood eyed him closely. “Have you ever read her novels?”

Giles went on the alert. “Have
you
?”

“I read what’s in there. It was very interesting. There’s a character in her book who rather reminds me of you.”

“Is there?” he said, trying to sound bored. Damn it all to hell. If even Ravenswood noticed . . .

As soon as he got home, he’d have to read every word.

Unbidden, an image from nine years ago rose in his mind—of the pretty young woman wearing a Marie Antoinette costume with such sweetness, it made his teeth ache to remember it. By the age of nineteen, she’d grown into a classic beauty—bow-shaped lips, thick lashes, high cheekbones. But beyond her looks, there’d been nothing classic about Minerva.