Surrender to the Devil (3 page)

Sterling wanted nothing more than to storm from the room, but he kept his pace measured, concentrating as he wended his way around people so he didn’t bump into anyone. Leaving wasn’t nearly as difficult as he’d imagined it would be. Perhaps because whatever his expression communicated caused people to quickly step out of the way rather than try to engage him in conversation.

He knew his behavior toward Miss Darling had been abhorrent, but he’d been unprepared for his reaction to her nearness. She didn’t have the voice of an angel. Hers was a voice that stirred passions within bedchambers. Sultry, sensual, and breathless, as though they’d already shared pleasure and she was eager for another round.

Her eyes…he almost groaned with the memory. They were a magnificent green, but it was what they hadn’t contained that enthralled him. No innocence. None at all. Life had seasoned her. She was unlike any of the young ladies of his acquaintance. She’d seen things—in all likelihood done things—that would have caused them to swoon.

He was not a man in the habit of losing control, but he had known that if he didn’t take himself out of her presence, he was likely to take her in his arms, and the devil take anyone who objected.

Then blast her, she’d pilfered his watch and he’d not felt her touch. Damn it all, he wanted to know her touch, and as his long strides carried him away from her, he wanted her all the more.

The encounter with Greystone had left Frannie unsettled. Feagan’s lads—although they were men, she would always think of them as his lads—knew better than to hound her with questions, but she needed some time alone to regain her composure. Normally she’d have taken a walk in the garden but the heavy rain made that an unpleasant proposition. So Claybourne’s massive residence would have to suffice. Because the servants knew her, they weren’t likely to object to her walking through the hallways and rooms where guests were not invited. Since she’d moved out of the grand house, she’d visited on occasion. While she wasn’t entirely comfortable here, one room did hold fond memories.

Without hesitating, she opened the door to the immense library and walked inside. Closing her eyes briefly, she inhaled deeply the wondrous fragrance of books. Ledgers never carried quite the same scent. After shutting the door to ensure her privacy, she wended her way among the various chairs and small tables that comprised individual sitting areas and walked along the shelf-lined wall, running her fingers across the spines of the many volumes that the old gent had collected over the years. He’d been a voracious reader. He’d introduced her to the works of Jane Austen and Charles Dickens, among others. Within this room, she’d traveled the world.

That thought brought Greystone to mind. Through Catherine, Frannie knew he’d explored the world and the many wonders it had to offer. She couldn’t imagine the boldness of character that particular endeavor would require: to step upon a ship and float out onto the wide expanse of ocean and trust that it would carry him to his destination. What had he done that had caused him to be a bit less civilized? And why, even now, could she not stop thinking about him? His callousness should have effectively ended any interest she might have had in him. Instead she found herself wondering what it was that he feared, because he most certainly was afraid of something.

When he realized she’d taken his watch, fear had hovered for a heartbeat within the depths of his eyes before they’d glinted dangerously. In her world, she’d known too many frightened souls, herself included. She could have understood him reacting with anger, but why had it bothered him to realize that he’d not seen her taking his watch? Or was she misreading the entire situation? It wasn’t as though he were a book.

With a mental shake, she chastised herself for lifting his pocket watch. She’d risen above her origins. It irritated her that he’d brought her back down to them. Why had she felt the need to prove herself a very skilled thief?

Why had she even cared about his opinion of her friends or her? Rude and arrogant, he represented everything about the aristocracy that she despised. Even Luke’s grandfather, for all the good works he’d done for them, had looked down his nose at the urchins his grandson called friends. Still on occasion Frannie couldn’t help but think of him fondly.

She crossed over to the desk and sat down. Running her hand over the fine, polished wood grain, she remembered how imposing Luke’s grandfather had appeared sitting there. Until the day she discovered his weakness for lemon drops. Then he’d become human in her eyes, especially as on occasion he shared one with her. She opened the drawer where he’d kept his sweets.

“Planning to pilfer something?”

With a small shriek, Frannie pressed her hand to her chest, her heart thudding against her ribs as she spun around in the chair to face her accuser.

Arms crossed over his chest, Greystone was leaning against the wall in the darkened corner, effectively avoiding what little daylight made its way through the window and into the room. Thunder boomed and the rain seemed to increase in intensity. She didn’t know why she hadn’t noticed him before, because he filled the corner with his presence. “You startled me, Your Grace.”

She’d always thought that Luke and Jack possessed a commanding presence, but theirs paled when compared with that of the Duke of Greystone. He was not a man accustomed to being denied, and the attraction she’d felt bubbling up within her while in the drawing room began to make its presence known once again. She refused to give into it. She’d not allow him to mock her tender regard or her friends. Still, she wasn’t childish enough to flounce out. She swallowed hard, determined to hold her own against him.

“He used to keep sweets hidden here,” she said inanely in response to the thickening silence. Greystone merely stared at her. “The previous earl,” she went on to explain. “Luke’s grandfather.”

Still he held his tongue. She closed the drawer and rose from the chair, refusing to be cowed by him. With her heart thundering almost as loudly as the storm, she strolled over to the window and gazed out on the gray rain. “I used to live here. The old gent would sit in that chair right there”—she pointed to a hunter-green upholstered chair near the window—“and have me read to him each afternoon. It’s strange. In my youth I lived with a kidsman who I’m quite certain at some point in his life killed someone, yet I never feared him. But the old gent terrified me.”

“Why?”

Ah, a word at last. She faced him, surprised to discover that they were standing much nearer to each other than she’d realized, and she suspected his inquiry was little more than a ruse to stop her from leaving. Why did the thought of him wishing her to stay thrill her?

“Because he was so…large.” She shook her head, frustrated by her inability to adequately describe Luke’s grandfather. She was much more skilled with the use of numbers than words. “Not physically, of course. He was tall, like Luke—but with more bone than flesh and a bit bent in his old age—but he had such a fierce presence. Everything about him was incredibly grand. The homes in which he lived—here and in the country. The coach in which he traveled. Sometimes he would take me about London with him when he needed to visit with someone, and the deference that he was given assured me that he was a very powerful man indeed. Much like you, Your Grace.”

“And powerful men frighten you?”

“They give me pause, but I am no longer a child to be intimidated by them. I daresay with age comes the inclination not to care much what others think.”

A corner of his mouth lifted slightly, and she suddenly had an insane urge to make him smile fully, even as she feared that he’d heard the lie in her words. She couldn’t deny that the aristocracy’s low opinion of her—and her friends—hurt. Each of them, in their own way, did a good deal for others less fortunate, and all of them were fiercely loyal. They would die for each other. That others overlooked the goodness in them and always expected the worst rubbed raw after a while.

“You say that as though you’re ancient,” he told her.

“I’m quickly approaching the age of thirty.” She didn’t know why she felt obligated to reveal her age. Possibly to ensure he was aware that he wasn’t dealing with an innocent young miss, but rather a woman who knew her own mind—or at least she had until she’d approached him. At that precise moment she wasn’t sure whether she wanted him to stay and entice her nearer or leave before the situation escalated beyond her control. Because with him she wasn’t certain she had complete control. She wanted to muss his hair, unveil the uncivilized aspect he’d referred to earlier.

“Quite old not to be married, not to have children tugging at your skirts,” he said.

“Oh, I have children.” She saw the condemnation flash in his deep blue eyes. It irritated her that he’d think the worst. She almost didn’t explain herself, but she felt compelled. On the one hand, she wanted him to think the very worst of her and on the other she wanted him to think her worthy of…something she couldn’t explain. “I take in orphans. Or I will once my children’s home is completed.”

“Ah, a reformer.”

“You disapprove. Do you not believe in good works, Your Grace?”

“They have their place. But working with orphans seems a waste for a woman as lovely as you.”

At his compliment, she felt the heat rush from the soles of her feet to her cheeks. She’d always considered herself a bit plain, or maybe it was simply that she wanted to be plain. She didn’t wish to garner men’s favor, so she worked very hard not to make herself appealing. Even the dress she wore today for so lovely an occasion as a wedding was designed not to draw a man’s eye, and yet somehow it had managed to draw his. “I’m not certain if I’ve been insulted or complimented.”

“Complimented, I assure you. I fear we got off to a rather unfortunate beginning with our introductions—or lack thereof. I’d retired to this room seeking some solace so that I might determine how best to make amends. I’m not typically so…unfriendly.” He gazed out the window. “The gent you were speaking with earlier, in the brown jacket—who is he?”

She was surprised by the abrupt change in topic and the inquiry. “James Swindler. An inspector with Scotland Yard.”

For the briefest of moments, she could have sworn that his mouth twitched as though he were fighting back a smile.

“I wasn’t inquiring as to his occupation, but rather what he is to you.”

Oh. She found that a rather odd statement. What could he be other than what he was? “A friend. Did you wish an introduction?”

A bit of strangled laughter erupted, before he pressed his mouth into a straight line and shook his head. “No, that’s quite all right. He seemed protective of you.”

“They all are.”

“They?”

“Feagan’s lads.”

“And Feagan is…”

“The kidsman who took us all in.”

“The one who taught you how to pilfer pockets?”

“Among other things.”

“You were a very deft student, Miss Darling. I didn’t even feel your touch. The problem there is that I would very much like to know your touch.”

Very slowly, his gaze came back to her. It held an invitation, as well as a promise. How was she to respond to that? To admit that she, too, was wondering what his touch might feel like? From the moment she’d lost her innocence, at the age of twelve, she’d had no sexual interest in men. They didn’t frighten her. She’d learned enough from Feagan’s lads to know that not all men were brutes. But still she’d never been attracted to a man, had never wanted to attract one. She’d never felt this strange fluttering in her stomach whenever she looked at a man, had never had her heart pounding so rapidly when he was near, had never found it so difficult to draw in breath when she gazed into his eyes or studied the intriguing shape of his mouth.

“No retort? No denial that you’re not curious about my touch?” he asked.

“I have no skills at these flirtatious games men and women play.” She didn’t know why she’d felt compelled to reveal that little tidbit about herself. She’d always held her own with the boys when it came to stealing or arranging a ruse, taking measures to fleece someone. They often sought out her opinion on their business dealings. But it was all so very distant from what was happening here. She was like a novice explorer, traveling uncharted ground.

“It’s not a game, Miss Darling,” Greystone said in a low voice that reverberated through her and settled somewhere in the vicinity of her heart.

“And by touch, I suppose you mean—”

“Simply a touch.”

She who was always so aware of her surroundings, of the people around her, judging when best to take, when to leave, had somehow missed that he’d leaned nearer to her, his blue eyes smoldering with desire. With the gentlest of touches, he skimmed his fingers along the curve of her face, from her temple, down her cheek, across her chin.

“So soft,” he whispered as his thumb stroked her lower lip, his gaze following his movements as though he’d never seen anything quite so fascinating, as though she were some rare creature. “The gentlemen standing near you in the drawing room…is any of them your lover?”

“No!” She was insulted by the insinuation, would have moved back if the slow stroking of his thumb just below her mouth wasn’t holding her captive as effectively as iron.

“Have you a lover?”

“I’m not certain why it’s any of your concern—”

“Have you?” he repeated with an insistence that indicated he’d not let his inquiry go unanswered.

“No.”

“Good.”

He never took his eyes from her. They never ceased to smolder. If anything, the fire within them intensified and burned through her. She was beginning to feel as though she might melt. She had a ridiculous need to undo some buttons, to let him blow his cool breath over her skin.

“Why is that good?” she asked, barely recognizing her own voice. It was far too sultry.

“Because I would very much like to kiss you, Miss Darling, and unlike you, I’m not in the habit of taking what rightfully belongs to someone else.”

His fingers were again on her cheek, his palm cupping her chin. He moved slowly toward her as though giving her time to retreat or an opportunity to object. She did neither. Instead she found herself leaning toward him, her eyes drifting closed. Then his mouth was upon hers.