A Little More Scandal Page 3

  The question she posed, however, was a sharp reminder of his purpose. Miss Catrin Jones was not his next objective. He only wanted her story. Success with the newspaper trade and his railroad interests would follow. If he claimed a kiss—or more—in the meantime, so be it. He would play the game as she wished, or tread more softly if her reluctance stood in the way. Had she been the prim sort who wanted only to sit on a bench and watch birds before confessing her story, he would be counting pigeons as they milled around Hyde Park.

  He knew better than to pursue more, knew better in ways that could not be revisited in his mind without pain and shame. To lose himself in a woman had not worked in Paris. The mistakes he had made there with a dancer named Georgette would never be duplicated. As thunderstruck as he was, holding a living doll’s hands, he needed to proceed with an economy of sentiment and an eye firmly toward profit.

  He contemplated how to answer her question with enough honesty to prolong their amusement, and to banish the new suspicion lurking in her canny gaze. To prove his motives were purely sexual—that he was by no means on the hunt for her untold tale—he made the ironic decision to give voice to his body. His impulse for the petite woman coalesced into rasping words that would challenge her hold on propriety while eliminating her new doubts.

  “I brought you here because of your mouth, just as I said. I’ve never seen its like. Tiny and perfect. Like ripe fruit. I want to taste the wetness between your lips, and I want that to be just the beginning.”

  The heavy tightness in his chest increased in proportion to her startled expression—nearly a deer running from a hunter, but nearly waiting to be caught. She whispered his name. How little effort would it take to grind his pelvis against her hip once again? Would she let him push her back against the settee and reveal the rest of her body to the lamplight? His own body hummed and pulsed in time with that thought.

  “Now let me kiss you, Catrin. Put your hands on me and let me kiss you.”

  Four

  Catrin backed up a step, despite their joined hands.

  “I . . . I should go.”

  Because yes, she had taken her usual course, which included a stubborn disregard for personal safety. Her life had nearly been forfeit more than once, with such folly-ridden thinking to blame. Or a complete lack of thinking. The mind that controlled vital functions like eating, sleeping, and avoiding associations with men who were built like medieval warriors generally lagged behind the part of her always thirsty for more. Water, wine, and even on occasion, vodka brought down from the Russian steppes—she lived in great gulps.

  But on occasion, she choked. The waves rose above her head and covered her in airless hysteria. Realizing William Christie’s desire so bright and obvious in his remarkable hazel eyes and in the steady rasp of his confident brogue dashed her on the rocks. She could no longer breathe.

  “You only just arrived,” he said. “And we’ve only now become comfortable with one another.”

  Lord, that accent, coupled with the rumbling harmonics of his deep, throaty voice, was going to scatter her to pieces. A man of breeding would never sound as he did. Just as well, really, because the frank words he spoke and the disrespect with which he wore his suit screamed lowborn. He was just that, after all.

  She would not have minded such a soul for her husband. Security was key, followed by expedience. But neither did she want to settle.

  For a moment, however, she had seen more than lust in eyes darkened by passion. She had seen the same avaricious curiosity shared by everyone who possessed even a passing interest in her tale of horror and death. If he was just another story-hunter . . .

  “I really must return to the ball,” she said.

  He clasped her fingers. Palm to palm, entwined. And with the slow, sure power of the tide, he pulled her back within the harbor of his body. Shoulders curved over and around. Neck bowed over. Arms angled behind her back, holding her hands there.

  “I’ve frightened you. Yes, Miss Jones?”

  “Yes.” The word escaped her mouth as a wheeze.

  “Let us reverse the scenario, shall we?”

  Catrin shook her head against his sudden change of topic. He was just so strong. Unsettling and powerful and tall. He would need to lean down to touch his chin to the top of her head. How were his hands so very large? She could not move, from her wrists to her elbows. But he did not wrench or pull in a way that made her think of violence. She felt more . . . wanted.

  Insane. Just as she was for letting matters proceed to such a crisis.

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “Why would a woman of your decent yet unimpressive standing, unmarried, virtually penniless, and with no lasting accommodations in London, want to meet a man like me in a secluded parlor?”

  “A man like you?”

  He angled his head, leaning down just as she had imagined. Only he did not do so with the aim of resting chin to crown. He swooped in, encircling her with those thick, steadfast arms—and kissed her.

  Catrin had been kissed before. Less frequently than she would have liked, if truth be told. Aldith had been excessively polite, even when they’d lain together. His kisses and the needs he strived to curtail—for her comfort, he’d said—did nothing but inspire protective affection. At times she had held him close with a sense of cradling a babe rather than a man.

  Later she’d been motivated by homesickness, boredom, pity. On occasion, she had even experienced pure desire, so different from Aldith’s tentative touches. When those few kisses occurred, they had been in secret, as she dared Fate to make the worst of her future. A nurse with a reputation for such behavior risked finding herself packed back to Britain. Ruined.

  But she had earned a nurse’s highest service awards for bravery and dedication, pinned to her smock by Florence Nightingale herself. That validation had not kept her safe. Her ship home had been consumed by the ocean.

  All dead except for Catrin.

  She shouldn’t be alive. Yet she was. And vigorous, implacable William Christie was kissing her.

  Her body relaxed just as her mouth came alive. She soaked in the rough loveliness of his chin, his jaw, as he deepened the meeting of their lips. Such soft lips, just as they had appeared—only now they were firm of purpose, steady, strong, demanding her acquiescence. She dragged in a long breath through her nose, scenting his hair tonic and shaving soap, as well as the deeper hint of sweat along his collar. Would the darker bronze hair at his nape be damp? The parlor was warm and close, and they had danced two waltzes . . .

  She tried to bring her hands around, but William held her immobile. Again, that feeling of being fiercely desired rather than imprisoned. Surely that was her wayward brain and its useless impulses. No woman should find kissing a stranger in a secluded parlor anything but lunacy.

  I shouldn’t be alive.

  William Christie brought her to life, truly so, in ways she hadn’t felt since being dragged off that beach in Gibraltar. Now her lungs ached and her body shivered for reasons of pleasure.

  She opened her mouth.

  A rumble of satisfaction vibrated from his throat into hers. She felt it where their chests pressed together—hers corseted to hide the softness, his clothed as if layers of fine wool could disguise the firm musculature. So very few of the hundreds, maybe thousands of men she had seen could claim such a magnificent torso.

  His tongue pushed into her mouth, making her forget about his chest except for how steadily he supported her. She gave him everything, tasting, sweeping her tongue over and along his, searching for the reason why this man—now, and so suddenly—had turned her into a woman little better than a camp follower. No answers came. Only more of his smoky, spicy taste and the heat of sharing his breath. Sticky sweetness slowed the blood in her veins. She softened against him, more, more again, until floating and standing and kissing shared the same start and finish.

  Just him.

  He raised his head. Quickly. Their lips parted with a little smack
ing noise.

  Catrin blinked. His rugged face came into focus, his nose first. It was a busted, ungainly thing. Not merely crooked, it looked as if William Christie had earned his way out of Glasgow by taking more beatings than he dispensed. Hard to believe, especially considering his success. Then came his mouth—oh, that mouth. Such full, smirking lips, now more deeply colored and glistening with slick juices.

  She had done that. They had done that together. And he had stopped.

  Still disoriented, she found his eyes at last. The room was dark enough for intimacy, which was a decided luxury considering their embrace, but now the shrewd hazel brilliance she had witnessed while waltzing hid in shadows. Whatever he was thinking hid there, too.

  “A man like me,” he whispered.

  “Excuse me?”

  “A rich man. Because I am rather wealthy, Catrin. And I would not put it above a penniless opportunist to try and trap me into marriage.”

  “A . . . ?” She frowned, her backbone fusing to a length of steel. “Are you implying that I am such a—what did you say? A penniless opportunist?”

  “Not implying. Stating as plain fact.”

  Catrin shook her shoulders in an attempt to get free. Only when he made a great show of releasing his hands did she stumble back. God, such a rampart of a man, like an ancient battlement. If she wanted to continue with him, she would need to learn how to operate a catapult and lay siege.

  But was that what she wanted? The trouble hardly seemed worthwhile—unless she counted his kiss. And his fortune. He was not wrong in assessing that its size was a considerable draw. Such a man must eventually desire female companionship. She had not known a solider to deny himself that comfort. Although she had never heard tales of William Christie in the military, he certainly had fought his way through life. That smashed nose was proof.

  She slid bare fingertips along her hairline, hoping to smooth the worst of what had been mussed by their kiss. Her curls were so unruly to begin with. “Would you walk away now if the thought had crossed my mind?”

  Surprisingly, his lips quirked. That brief, almost condescending smile. “I’d walk away if you hadn’t. You’re no dummy, Catrin.”

  A surge of lava-hot shame rushed up from her toes, at odds with the heat already lurking at the apex of her thighs and the cleft between her breasts. “Then why call me names?”

  “As I said, I was reversing the scenario. You strayed toward thoughts that I’m an equally crass opportunist, luring you here to pry loose your secrets.”

  He knelt and picked up her gloves from where they had fallen, then remained kneeling. The pose was reminiscent of a man readying to propose marriage. Catrin bit her lower lip to keep from giving more thought to the coincidence. Then she focused on what the pose did to his thighs. They bulged powerfully against taut wool trousers, which had hung loosely when he stood. What manner of tailor clothed such a man with so little regard for his assets?

  “Catrin. Focus, lass.”

  Lass. She nearly closed her eyes against the unfairness. Accent, voice, adorable choice of word. Nearly an endearment. All from a beast of an industrialist who could waltz and spar.

  And kiss.

  “I apologize for assuming the worst of you, William,” she said, fingers toying with the lace ruffle at her waist. “You must understand, I’ve been bedeviled since stepping foot back on English soil. The habit of defending myself has become, well, habit.”

  He rose from his knees and took hold of her hands. One after the other, he replaced her gloves and fastened each of the tiny seed pearl buttons. She owned only the one quality pair. Luckily, Lady Julia’s offer of lodging through the Season had extended to include cast-off garments of such refinement as Catrin had never known. For that reason alone she forgave the woman the worst of her curiosity and conjectures.

  She had so little time, and would have so few opportunities once her moments of notoriety had passed. Panic erased the pleasure of their kiss, even replacing the forbidden thrill.

  The waves of anxiety were forever crashing over her.

  William surprised her once again. Stern, yes, and still wearing the tough shell of a man who made war on a daily basis—figuratively, if not literally. He smiled. Not that mere flicker of cynical condescension. Not this time. Although just as brief, his smile was indulgent. Almost doting. Had Catrin been shivering with cold, the unexpected warmth in his moss-brown eyes would have been more welcome than a blanket around her shoulders.

  “I did not mention becoming your champion lightly, my dear Miss Jones. For now, I suggest we bid each other a good evening. I have no desire for either of us to be discovered. Society would force our hand, and we would always suspect one another’s motives.”

  “Quite the impasse. What solution do you propose?”

  “That we start again,” he said roughly. “Grant me permission to court you. Formally. Let me prove that you can trust me.”

  Five

  “Come in.”

  William looked up from his desk to find Sol Rosecranz, the best of his three accountants—all of whom he employed to cross-check one another’s work. Trust and business never mixed. The man was lean and whip-thin. Boxy suit. Small, wire-rimmed glasses. But he was a marvel of efficiency, with both numbers and words.

  “Sir, the updated railroad proposal figures.” Sol extended a portfolio adorned with his neat handwriting. “They’re better than we expected. Mason’s backers in Manchester pulled out, which means yours will be the most fiscally secure bid for the contract.”

  “They pulled out, did they?” William feigned surprise, knowing full well that his rather aggressive settlements with a trio of new-money Mancunian textile mill owners had prompted their decision to back him instead. “A nice turn of events.”

  “Indeed, sir,” Sol said with a slight smile.

  Whether Rosecranz guessed—or approved of—William’s involvement mattered not at all. On occasion he had needed to fire men who did not appreciate his methods. If they did not acknowledge the source of their income, they had no need for pay packets from Christie Holdings, Ltd.

  His secretary, Mr. Hounslow, knocked on the open door. He carried himself with the demeanor of an undertaker, yet conducted his affairs with the same efficiency, correctness of character, and discretion William valued in his closest employees. He believed in none of them so greatly as to believe them loyal; the highest bidder too often trumped previous promises, and even friendship. But they did well for him on a day-to-day basis, and he knew better than to assign them responsibilities he could not assume on a moment’s notice.

  “What is it, Hounslow?”

  “Sir, my pardon for interrupting. Mr. Lymon from the Daily Journal requests an audience.”

  Interesting. At least a week early.

  Such an auspicious turn. Had Lymon held the power position in this venture, he would be sitting behind his desk in his office, waiting for William to grovel. Instead, the man could wait in the parlor for a few moments. Mrs. Orton, the housekeeper, always kept a small fire burning there, no matter the season. Let Lymon sweat.

  “Send him in ten minutes hence,” William said. “Rosecranz, nicely done. I’ll send for you if I have questions.”

  The men offered slight bows before exiting. William shuffled essential papers out of sight, particularly those a keen-eyed reptile like Lymon might consider fodder for his next exposé. Already William had been subject to a number of profiles in London and New York, few of which were complimentary. From nations to individuals, finance and trade were fundamental to modern life. Yet how many appreciated the miracle of his escape from the lowest, most vile poverty? Self-made men powered Victoria’s empire without receiving a sliver of the respect afforded even the worst windbag in Parliament.

  In tidying his space, he caught sight of an invitation on lush, heavy card stock with a die-cut border. The flourishing hand struck a strong contrast of black on pale cream. The Duchess of Marsden’s Season-ending masquerade gala was a mere two weeks aw
ay. He had not considered attending. After all, inquiries and deals would be considerably more difficult with his quarry tucked behind masks.

  But that had been before meeting Miss Jones.

  The image of her pretty, sprightly face appeared in his mind. Lips in a moist pout. Just as she had appeared after their kiss.

  Would Catrin merit an invitation from the Duchess? Likely not, as the woman was an incredible stickler for propriety. Now in her eightieth year, she probably believed even Queen Victoria too modern. However, her granddaughter, Lady Evelyn Arnaude, had assumed organizational duties upon her recent second marriage to a French diplomat, and she considered herself rather forward-thinking. William merely pegged her as the ringleader of the most polite coterie in London. Curiosities abounded at events she organized, but those subtle curiosities would never be apparent to one so oblivious as the Duchess.

  Perhaps he would ask Catrin to accompany him. He could hide from the world in plain sight with a mystery woman on his arm. That sense of security might appeal to her, as she seemed fixated on matters of privacy. And a tight, unwarranted place in his chest unfurled at the idea of having her to himself. The few public events they had attended in tandem in the weeks since Lord Stalton’s ball left William dissatisfied. She accepted suit from any number of men. He was but one of many.

  He appreciated that situation even less with regard to a woman than he did with a business opportunity.

  Never rude. Never distant. She remained the same beautifully affable creature. The teasing flirtation, however, had moved on to other individuals. She refused his offer to court her formally—though not with so many words. On that night, she had merely requested time to consider his offer, which he granted without hesitation. Her steady refusal of additional intimacy in the ensuing days had been answer enough. That silent rejection stung his pride and lifted a bubble of anger up from his gut.

  Lymon’s arrival was a timely reminder of William’s purpose. For a moment there, he had believed Miss Jones was his aim. Tasting her mouth once again. Taking her farther. Indulging in her as he had not indulged in nearly a year. But no, she was just another facet of his industry.