Too Wicked to Wed (27 page)

Home.
Wherever might that be? Her fingers tangled in the knotted fringe. She couldn’t help thinking of the sun-bleached chintzes and faded draperies at Linsley Close, waiting for a special touch to give them new life.

“You may set it on the sideboard.” Connor came through the doorway, followed by a maid with the tea tray. “We will not be needing anything else.”

Steam spiraled up from the pot, filling the room with its earthy fragrance.

“Drink this.” Connor added a generous splash of whisky to the tea before passing it over.

Though he had finally consented to having his hand bandaged, some of the cuts were still visible. She shuddered to think how close he had come to falling victim to his former employee’s diabolical scheming.

His eyes did not miss the tremor of her hands. A flare of quicksilver emotion added a smoldering intensity to his gaze. “What is it?”

“I…I think I have seen enough of brothels to last me a lifetime,” she murmured, trying to make light of all her inner fears.

During the carriage ride, he had held her in his arms, and his closeness had been comforting. She did not doubt that he cared for her in his own way. And the physical passion that sizzled between them was undeniable, and yet…She had gambled she could win his love.

But perhaps it simply was not in the cards.

“Come morning,” she added softly. “I shall consign that dratted vowel to the flames, if you don’t mind.”

“Perhaps that would be best,” murmured Connor.

Oh, how quickly he had agreed to turn their partnership into a pile of ashes.
Her heart gave a lurch. Was her dream of sharing a real life with him as elusive as a wisp of smoke? She tried to take a sip of the fortified tea but its taste was bitter beyond measure.

“Alexa.” Pushing the bottle aside, Connor reached out to cup her chin. “What is wrong? Are you hiding some hurt from me?”

His touch was gentle and still warm from the heat of the tea. She gave a tiny shake of her head. “Truly, I have suffered naught but a few bruises, and they will heal soon enough. Remember—I am country miss, not some delicate Town belle. I have experienced worse in taking a tumble from my horse.”

He did not let go of her. “I am not speaking of any physical scrapes.”

The ache in her chest made it difficult to draw a breath. “I fear that at heart, you wish you could also add our marriage lines to the fire,” she blurted out. “That it, too, is a partnership forced upon you by duty, not personal choice.”

As his hand slipped away, Alexa blinked back a tear.

Rising abruptly, he reached for a small package on the desk and placed it in her lap.

“W-what…” she stammered.

“A belated wedding present.” He replied. “I am sorry that with all the confusion in our lives, it has taken me so long to arrange for you to have it.”

Alexa slowly untied the pale ribbon and let the paper fall away. Lying in the pasteboard box was a cashmere scarf, soft as a sea breeze, the colors and design right out of her sketchbook.

When she finally looked up, her eyes were brimming over with hope.

Connor leaned down to kiss the salt from her cheek. “I, too, am thinking of giving up my share of The Wolf’s Lair. Sara Hawkins has shown a real aptitude for the business, so perhaps now is the right time to retire.”

He shook out the wool and twined it around her neck. “But I am used to working for a living and would be bored to flinders living the life of an indolent lord. What say you to forming a new partnership?”

Alexa breathed in the faint country scent of earth and hay. “We could call it The Goat’s Retreat.”

Connor crooked a smile. “I suppose if we are going to sell weavings to the ladies of the ton, we are going to need a more pastoral name than The Wolf’s Lair.”

“But before we come to any final decisions, we had better discuss the terms.” She hesitated. “Are we speaking of an equal partnership?”

“Not exactly.”

Her heart stilled. “What are you saying?”

“That I have much to learn about being a country gentleman…a respectable merchant…a worthy husband. It will no doubt require more work on your part in the beginning. But I am hoping you are still willing to tackle the job you started of making Linsley Close our home.”

“A house needs more than polishing and dusting to make it a home,” she whispered.

“Yes, I know. It needs love.” His arms came around her in a fierce hug. “Snarls have always come more easily to me than fine words, Alexa. I should have some eloquent speech to tell you what I feel for you. But I can only say I love you.” He touched his lips to the corner of her mouth, drawing her into a deep kiss. “And have since the moment you marched into my lair.”

“It is enough, Connor. More than enough.”

“Then let us seal the deal with another kiss, my love.”

The Marquess of Haddan has traded
his rakish ways for more serious
pursuits. But when his new interest
brings him to a magnificent
country house, the temptation
awaiting inside may be more
than he can bear…

*

Please turn this page for a preview of 

Too Tempting to Resist

Prologue

O
h, I’m
so
glad ye stopped by for a visit, sir. The Wolfhound says ye have a discerning eye fer art, so I’m anxious to get yer opinion on this.” Sara Hawkins stripped the last of the wrappings from around a gilt-framed watercolor painting and let out an admiring whistle. “Don’t ye think it will look lovely hanging in the Eros Bedchamber?”

Gryffin Owain Dwight, the Marquess of Haddan, shrugged out of his overcoat and came over to take a look. “You intend to hang
that
in
there
?” A dark brow shot up. “I wouldn’t advise it.”

“Why not?” Sara sounded a little crestfallen. “Roses are my favorite flower and this one is awfully pretty.”

“Indeed it is. But in the secret language of flowers, red roses symbolize love—a sentiment that would likely make a number of your patrons rather nervous,” said Gryff dryly. Patrons was putting it politely, seeing as Sara’s establishment was one of the most notorious gambling hells and brothels in London. “If you must pick a rose for a decorative touch, make it an orange one.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Fascination.” He curled a wicked smile. “Better yet, find a print of a yellow iris, which means ‘passion.’ Or sweetpea, which means ‘blissful pleasure.’”

She let out a snort of laughter.

“Or a peach blossom, which means ‘I am your captive.’”

“Fancy that.” Setting aside the painting, Sara perched a shapely hip on the sideboard and gave the marquess her full attention. “Now who would have ever guessed that flowers could talk.”

Gryff nodded gravely. “And then there is the grapevine…”

“Which means?” Sara leaned forward, her eyes widening in anticipation.

“Which means, ‘I am very thirsty so do you have any more of that expensive Scottish malt stashed away in your private cupboard?’”

A crumpled kidskin glove hit him square in the chest. “Oh, ye horrid man! Here I thought I was learning some fancy bit of knowledge. But ye was just pulling my corset strings.” She gave an aggrieved sniff. “Now that I own this establishment, I can make my own rules. So I don’t know why I let ye through the doors.”

“Because of my
beaux yeux
, of course,” quipped Gryff.

“Yer bows-yours?”

“That’s French for ‘lovely eyes,’” he explained, batting his raven-dark lashes. With all due modesty, the marquess knew that he was a great favorite with females, aristocratic or otherwise. And not only for his
beaux yeux
—though the unusual shade of green-flecked hazel did seem to have a mesmerizing effect on the opposite sex.

However, that fact was proving far less satisfying of late…

“Hmmph.” Sara tossed her head, interrupting his private musings. “So Frogs have a language of their own too, eh?”

Gryff gave a bark of laughter. “Touché.” Seating himself on the edge of her desk, he loosened his starched cravat, and expelled a long breath. “Now about that malt, Sara.”

The door of the Chinoise curio cabinet opened and shut. Glasses clinked as she passed him a silver tray. “Ye may pour me a taste as well.”

“I take it that business has been good.”

“Aye, very profitable,” she replied. “Especially as I’m putting this bottle on your monthly bill.”

Gryff splashed a measure of the dark amber spirits into two glasses. “I’d gladly pay double for the pleasure of conversing with you,” he murmured, passing one to her.

She exaggerated a leer. “Pay triple and I’ll pleasure ye with far more than words, sweetheart.”

“Tempting.” He eyed her over the rim of his drink. “But I thought you were too busy running the Lair to have private patrons anymore.”

Until recently, The Wolf’s Lair had been owned by Gryff’s good friend Connor Linsley, the Earl of Killingworth. However, Connor had turned over a new leaf in life and had embarked on a new career as a goat farmer after gifting the Lair to his former employee.

Gryff swirled his whisky. His friend had also embarked on a new life as a happily married man, a fact which no doubt had much to do with his own current unsettled mood.

“Lud, I
am
busy,” responded Sara. “You have
no
idea how much work it is to run a business.” Despite the bantering tone, Sara was watching him carefully, a shade of concern clouding her gaze. “But fer you, I might make an exception.”

A smile played on his lips. “Tempting,” he repeated. “However, I value the relationship we have now far more than a fleeting tumble in bed.” He turned away, his expression blurred by the soft shadows of the private parlor as he stared at the pale painted wall above the bookcase. “Next time I stop by, I shall bring you a picture of ivy to hang here.”

“Oh? Does ivy have a special meaning, too?” she asked somewhat warily.

“It signifies ‘friendship.’ ‘Affection.’”

Sara slid over and planted a light kiss on his cheek. “That’s sweet, no matter that you’re teasing me with all this talk about roses and such having a language of their own.”

“Actually, I’m not. The bit about the grapevine was a jest, but the rest is all true,” he assured her. “Indeed, the concept has been around for centuries. Lady Mary Wortley Montague, wife of the British ambassador to Constantinople during the early 1700s, brought a Turkish book back to England entitled
The Secret Language of Flowers
. It’s quite fascinating. If you like, I’ll bring you a copy.”

“Thank you.” Sara twined a lock of his long black hair around her forefinger. “How is it that a rakehell rogue like you knows so much about flowers?”

Gryff felt himself stiffen. Pulling away, he stalked to the hearth and picked up the poker. Coals crackled as he stirred up a flame. “You know better than to ask your patrons about their private lives. And like them, I don’t come here to answer personal questions,” he snapped.

“Ye don’t come here to dip yer wick or to drink yerself senseless anymore either,” retorted Sara, eyeing the very modest amount of whisky he had poured for himself. “Is something wrong? Ye look a little niffy-tiffy. Is something eating at yer insides?”

He stared at the embers, the bits of glowing orange a stark contrast to the surrounding bed of gray-black ashes.
Dark and Light.
“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps I’m sick of…”

Sick of what? Seductions and sousing himself in brandy?
Of late, neither swiving nor guzzling a barrel of brandy had held much allure. In fact, he had given up drinking heavily several months ago after his fuzz-witted carelessness had almost cost Connor his livelihood. As for women, strangely enough, these days, he was finding far more satisfaction in dedicating his energy to…other pursuits.

“Perhaps I’m sick of youthful folly,” said Gryff slowly, thinking of the books on landscape design stacked up by his bedside, and the unfinished essay on his library desk. “With age comes wisdom…or so one hopes.” He made a wry face. “My birthday was last week, and when a man turns thirty, he is forced to take stock of his life.”

Folding her arms across her chest. Sara subjected him to a piercing stare.

“Ah, yes…”

Her eyes slowly ran the length of the marquess’s lanky form, moving from the crown of his silky, shoulder-length hair, down over the broad slope of muscled shoulders and lean, tapered waist. She let her gaze linger for a moment on the distinctly masculine contours of his thighs before running it down the long stretch of legs.

“Yes,” she repeated, raising a mocking brow. “I can see that teetering on the brink of senility can make a man repent of his past sins.”

“Of which there are too many to name,” he murmured.

“Ain’t
that
the truth,” drawled Sara. “You and your fellow Hellhounds have a terrible reputation for wildness.” Society viewed Gryff and his two friends Connor Linsley and Cameron Daggett as dangerous because of their utter disregard for all the rules and regulations governing Polite Behavior.

“But you, of all people, know our deep, dark secret—we are harmless little lapdogs,” replied Gryff. “Our bark is far worse than our bite.”

“Ha!” Sara gave a snort. “The Wolfhound may have been domesticated…” Connor’s nickname was the Irish Wolfhound, as his mother had hailed from the Emerald Isle. “But you and Mr. Daggett are still devilishly dangerous. And speaking of that devil, how is his leg mending from the bullet—”

A sudden urgent thumping on the door interrupted the question. It was punctuated by a gruff shout. “Oh, no—ye can’t go in there, madam!”

“Oh, yes—” The latch sprang open. “I can.”

Gryff saw a willowy figure evade the porter’s meaty hand and slip inside the private parlor.
Prim bonnet, dowdy gown, sturdy half boots, stern scowl.
An expert in assessing females, he needed only an instant to recognize the type. She was not a lightskirt but a respectable lady.

Definitely a harbinger of trouble.

But thankfully not
his
trouble. Taking a sidelong step out of the ring of firelight, Gryff slouched a shoulder to the storage cabinet, curious as to what sort of sparks were about to fly.

“Am I to understand that
you
are the proprietor here?” The intruder pointed an indigo-gloved finger at Sara.

“Yes.” Sara extended a ladylike hand in greeting. “I’m Sara Hawkins. And you are?”

The intruder eyed it uncertainly, but after a moment, innate good manners prevailed. “Lady Brentford,” she said reluctantly.

In contrast to her straitlaced appearance, her voice was low and lush, the sound sending an inexplicable shiver prickling down Gryff’s spine. It was soft as silk, yet had a slight nub to its texture.

The effect was unexpected. Erotic.

Gryff gave an inward wince.
Erotic?
Good God, what momentary madness had stirred such a thought? The lady did not look as if the word “erotic” had ever entered her vocabulary.

And yet…

And yet, despite the severe chignon and the subdued, sober hues of her clothes, there was something sensual about Lady Brentford.

“Might I offer you some refreshment, Lady Brentford?” asked Sara politely. “If brandy is not to your taste, I can ring for some tea.”

“Thank you.” Her tone turned cooler—indeed, it could have chilled all the oolong in India. “But this is
not
a social call.”

Gryff tried to shake off the odd current of attraction that kept his gaze held in thrall.

“Ah. Then I assume you are looking for Lord Brentford,” said Sara.

“Good God, no.” The lady grimaced. “Lord Brentford has been two years in the grave, and I devoutly pray that he remains there.”

A small furrow formed between Sara’s brows. “Then forgive me, but…”

“It is my brother I seek—Lord Leete.”

A delicate cough sounded. “We have a full house tonight, and I do not know every patron by name. Perhaps you could describe him to me?”

Leete.
The name stirred a vague flicker somewhere on the edges of Gryff’s memory. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to bring the fellow into sharper focus.
Yes, yes, it had been just last week—an obnoxious puppy, yapping some impertinent question about what type of tassel looked best on a Hessian boot.

“Average height and reedy,” he answered for her. “Blonde hair brushed in an elaborate array of over-oiled curls.” A tiny pause. “And sidewhiskers that make him look like a poodle.”

“That’s the one.” Lady Brentford turned slowly to face him. “A friend of yours?”

“Not in the least,” replied Gryff. “Actually, he was making a nuisance of himself. I was forced to be rather rude.”

“He has a habit of doing that,” she said. Her voice remained calm, but her eyes betrayed the depth of her emotion. Beneath the surface hue of azure blue rippled a darker current of stormy slate. “Is he here?”

Sara shot Gryff a questioning look.

“The gaming rooms,” murmured he. “Try the
vingt-et-un
tables in the West Parlor. Word around my club is that Lord Leete plays for high stakes.” A pause. “Though only the Devil knows why, as he seems incapable of counting to ten when he’s in his cups.”

Looking a trifle uncomfortable, Sara cleared her throat. “Lady Brentford, there are, how shall I say it, some unwritten rules regarding establishments such as these. Gentlemen expect discretion from the management, especially concerning interruptions.”

“I’ve come all the way from Oxfordshire to see him.” Her tone had turned taut. “It’s a matter of pressing importance.”

Anger.
Though she was trying hard to hide it, Lady Brentford was extremely angry, decided Gryff.
But was there also a touch of fear?
Repressing a frown, he angled a step to the side, trying to get a better read on her face.