Meet Me at Midnight Page 2

  Her body swayed against his, their hips brushing, and the heady, dizzy sensation she’d experienced on first seeing him returned, even stronger. Perhaps Marley had twirled her too vigorously—something had shaken up her insides.

  But it would take all of her fingers and toes to tally the number of times an experienced rake had attempted to seduce her, and failed. She knew all the lines of that play, and yet with Lord Althorpe she hadn’t the least desire to exit. “You have further plans for me, my lord?”

  “I’d be a fool or three months dead if I didn’t have further plans for you, Lady Victoria.” His voice was almost a growl, sensuous and very sure of itself.

  Despite herself, a small shiver of anticipation ran down her spine. “You can’t shock me, you know.”

  Humor lit his amber gaze. “I’d wager that I probably could. Twirling is hardly the depth of scandalous behavior. And they don’t call me Sin for nothing.”

  She hadn’t been aware that he’d been present at the Franton ball for so long—and she felt like she should have known. She should have sensed his heady, dangerous presence the moment he’d entered the room. “So shock me, Lord Althorpe.”

  His gaze lowered to her mouth. “We’ll start with kisses, then. Deep, slow ones that last forever, that melt you inside.”

  Heavens, he was good—but he wasn’t the only one who had wits. “Perhaps you should begin with why you want to kiss me, Lord Althorpe, considering that five minutes ago you were more interested in speaking with Marley than in dancing with me.”

  Abruptly she sensed that she had his full attention. Nothing changed; not his expression nor his hold on her nor his graceful steps, but she suddenly knew why he had caught her notice from all the way across Lady Franton’s ballroom. And why she hadn’t felt his presence before. He hadn’t wanted her to.

  “You must allow me to make amends for giving you the impression that I overlooked you, then,” he said in a low, intimate tone, and glanced around the crowded room. “Do you know of anywhere more…private where I might apologize to you?”

  She wasn’t about to flee at his implication and let him think he’d cowed Vixen Fontaine; no one had ever accomplished that. Besides, she wasn’t ready to allow him to escape just yet. “Undoubtedly Lady Franton has locked the doors to anywhere secluded.”

  “Damnation.” He cast a scowling glance toward her herd. “We’ll have to make do h—”

  “Except for her famous garden,” she finished. There. She’d called his bluff. Now he could be the one to back down from the challenge.

  Instead of conjuring an excuse to remain safely in public, though, he smiled—the least friendly, most dangerous smile she’d ever seen. “The garden. Might I apologize to you in the garden, then, Lady Victoria?”

  Uh-oh. Declining now was out of the question, since she’d suggested it. “I don’t require an apology,” she returned airily, hoping she didn’t sound completely demented, “but you may render me an explanation there, if you wish.”

  They had already neared that side of the ballroom, and it was a simple matter to slip through one of the half-open windows lining the east wall. Lady Franton’s exotic garden had won prize ribbons for years, and if not for her familiarity with the grounds in daylight, Victoria would have been hopelessly lost twenty feet from the main house. A scattering of torches dimly lit the flagstone pathways that wound through the flora, rejoining into a circular path around the small pond at the garden’s center.

  Now that they had escaped the ballroom, she expected Althorpe to conjure a distraction. In all likelihood he’d never expected her to join him, and his flirtation had merely been a tease. One did not publicly remove earls’ daughters from a ballroom in order to seduce them.

  Part of her, though, wished that weren’t so. Her boredom had abruptly vanished; she wanted to sink into him, to have his touch envelop her as his words and his voice had enveloped her senses already.

  “Your explanation, my lord?” she prompted. If he intended on retreating, she wished he would get on with it and quit tantalizing her with his presence.

  “We’re not private enough yet.” The marquis slid his hand beneath her elbow, keeping her close beside him, and guided her along the path winding around to the pond.

  Uncertain anticipation ran hot just beneath her skin. Light as Lord Althorpe’s touch was, she sensed the strength underneath, a hint enough to know that she couldn’t pull free from his grip if she wanted to. Far from frightening her, he aroused her in a way no other man had ever managed. She wondered what his lips would taste like, how they would feel pressed against hers.

  They stopped beneath the purple overhanging blossoms of a wisteria, the scent of the flowers drifting about and encircling them in heavy summer sweetness. “Now,” he murmured, facing her, his palm still cupping her elbow, “where were we? Ah, yes. I was rendering you…an explanation.”

  Victoria met his gaze, golden and catlike in the torchlight. She was very aware of the steel beneath the velvet of his grip; the isolated quiet broken only by the muted chatter of voices and violins and the rustle of the wind, and even the way he had positioned her between the heavy wisteria branches and his lean, hard body—two equally immovable objects.

  Whatever it was, he wanted something. Something from her. “I was wrong earlier,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant. Sin was a powerful temptation, indeed.

  His gaze drifted down the length of her gown and returned to her face. “Wrong about what?”

  “When I first saw you, I thought you resembled your brother. You don’t.”

  With one long finger he reached out and brushed a straying lock of hair from her face. “How well did you know old wooden head?”

  A tremble ran down Victoria’s spine at the feather-light touch. Her involuntary response bothered her, since his callousness offended her. “The Marquis of Althorpe was well respected.”

  The finger traced her cheekbone. “And I’m not? That’s hardly a revelation.”

  Good God, he was making her shiver. “I don’t comprehend why you speak so poorly of your own brother,” she countered, trying to keep her voice steady, “particularly when everyone else admired him.”

  He studied her face in the flickering torchlight, and she had the sense that something besides flirtation had his interest. “Apparently not everyone admired him,” he countered. “Someone did put a ball through his head.”

  Victoria stiffened. “Don’t you care at all that he’s dead?”

  Althorpe shrugged. “Dead is dead.” His fingers traced the curve of her ear. “Did I hear Marley call you the Vixen?”

  Suddenly things made sense. “Was this entire conversation an attempt to get Vixen Fontaine into the garden, so you could brag about it to all your friends?”

  The marquis froze for a heartbeat, then softly caressed the corner of her mouth with his thumb. “What if it was?” His sensuous mouth curved into a slow smile that stopped her breath. “But I don’t have any friends. Only rivals.”

  “So you want to kiss me.”

  “Surely that doesn’t surprise you.” He tilted his head, his gaze lowering to her lips. “You’ve been kissed before, no doubt. By Marley, perhaps?”

  Her lips felt dry, and she resisted the impulse to lick them. “Innumerable times. And not just by Marley.”

  “But not by me.”

  Then his mouth closed over hers.

  Pulsing heat coursed through her. She was used to being in control—of both her emotions and her encounters with men. Yet as his lips molded to hers, teasing and pulling and consuming, she felt anything but in control. Her mind, her heart, all her senses were spinning—more wildly than they ever had in Marley’s arms.

  Althorpe’s hands cupped her face as he tasted her. With a breathless sigh that didn’t sound at all like her, Victoria slid her arms up around his shoulders, pulling herself closer against him.

  He slowly bent her back until she leaned against the gnarled trunk of the tree. Warm, sure fingers slid down
her shoulders, pausing to caress her waist, then her hips, then drifting lower. She tangled her fingers into his hair, trying to guide the heated pressure of his mouth against hers. All she could hear was their ragged breathing and the flying roar of blood through her veins. She’d never felt so hot and dazed and wanton.

  A distant, dreamy part of her became aware of the cool breeze that brushed across her legs, hardly enough to cool the heat between them. She was glad for the tree; without it, she wouldn’t have been able to stand upright.

  “Victoria!”

  From the fury in the voice, that might have been the fifth time the Earl of Stiveton had shouted her name, but it was the first time she heard it. Tearing her mouth from Althorpe’s, she drew in a gasping breath. “Yes, Father?”

  Basil Fontaine stood at the edge of the fish pond and glared at her. His fist clenched a glass of Madeira so tightly that Victoria was surprised he hadn’t shattered it. “What in God’s name are you doing? And get your hands off her, Althorpe!”

  Sometime during their kiss, the marquis had gathered her skirt past her knees and her thighs, exposing her stockings and her silk unmentionables to the moonlight. His kneading, caressing hands had pulled her nearly naked form to the hard length of his body while she’d clung to him helplessly. Slowly, as though he hadn’t a care in the world other than kissing her, he lowered his hands from her. Where he had been touching her felt hot.

  She wanted to look up at him but resisted the temptation as she straightened. Flustered and discomposed as she was, she couldn’t bear to see it if their kiss hadn’t affected him as it had affected her. She was the one who made men swoon at will; it wasn’t supposed to be the other way around.

  “You must be Lord Stiveton,” the marquis drawled.

  “I don’t intend to introduce myself to you under these circumstances, you blackguard! Move away from my daughter!”

  Victoria frowned, rational thought beginning to penetrate the warm, rosy cloud. Father hated scenes, particularly the ones that involved her. He certainly wouldn’t shout and stomp and draw attention to one—unless it was too late to hide it, and he was trying to salvage what he could of his own good name. She glanced beyond the fish pond, and her heart missed a beat.

  “Fiend seize it.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

  “Not quite the ending I’d envisioned,” Althorpe murmured, apparently still unconcerned.

  Lady Franton’s entire guest list stood on the far side of the fish pond, tittering and whispering and pointing. At least it seemed like the entire multitude had appeared to witness her latest and worst scandal.

  “How dare you carry on with my daughter in that manner!”

  Her mother emerged from the crowd to join her father. “Victoria, how could you? Do as your father says, and come away from that awful man!”

  Victoria tried to force her brain to function again. She felt sluggish, as though even now she would rather be standing beneath the wisteria kissing the tall rake beside her. “It was just a kiss, Mama,” she said in as calm a tone as she could muster.

  “Just a kiss?” Lady Franton, their hostess, repeated in her shrill voice. “He was practically inhaling you!”

  “No, he—”

  Lord Franton stepped into the torchlight. “This is beyond the pale,” he announced, as half a dozen of his burliest footmen pounded up behind him. “I let you join us tonight out of respect for your late brother, Althorpe. Obviously, though, you cannot be trusted to conduct yourself in a manner befitting your st—”

  “Might I make a suggestion?” the marquis said, his voice as calm as if he were discussing the weather.

  No doubt he faced angry crowds all the time. Victoria, though, felt mortified. High spirits were one thing; being caught kissing—being inhaled by—a notorious rake was something else entirely. And now everyone had practically seen her bare bottom!

  “‘A suggestion?’” Lord Franton echoed scornfully. “There’s only one thing that could put this right, and it’s not clever jests and making fun of—”

  “Before you continue your tirade,” Althorpe interrupted, “I returned to England with the intention of assuming the duties of my title.”

  Victoria risked a glance at him as the garden abruptly quieted.

  “I have no wish to cause offense to either Lady Victoria or to you for our slight indiscretion,” he continued, his tone dismissive. “I will therefore ‘do the right thing’ as you so eloquently put it, Lord Franton: Lady Victoria and I shall marry. Does that satisfy your requirements for propriety?”

  Victoria felt the ground drop out from beneath her feet. “What?” she gasped.

  He nodded, his eyes and expression unreadable as he glanced down at her. “We both stepped too far. It is the only logical solution.”

  She scowled. “The only ‘logical solution,’” she snapped, “is to forget this entire incident. It was a kiss, for heaven’s sake! It’s not as though we set off for Gretna Green!”

  “With his hand halfway up her…you-know-what? That was no first kiss,” the Duke of Hawling blustered from the crowd of onlookers, while dozens of others echoed the statement in more graphic detail. “With Althorpe’s—and the Vixen’s—reputations, no doubt he’s already well on his way to an heir.”

  “You were practically…fornicating! And in my garden!” Lady Franton fainted artistically into her husband’s arms.

  The accompanying titters and mutterings of agreement were simply too much to bear. “I have never set eyes on him before tonight!” Vix yelled.

  “It’s not where your eyes have been that we’re concerned about, Daughter,” her father growled, white-faced. “You’ll call on me tomorrow, Althorpe, or I’ll see you jailed—or hanged.”

  The marquis sketched a short bow. “Until tomorrow.” He took her hand in his, bending over her knuckles and brushing them softly with his lips. “My lady.” With that he turned on his heel and strolled back in the direction of the house.

  The rat. Victoria wanted to join him in fleeing, but her father stalked forward to grab her by the arm. “Come along, girl.”

  “I am not marrying Sin Grafton,” she spat out.

  “Yes, you are,” he hissed. “You’ve gone too far this time, Victoria. I kept warning you, but you couldn’t be bothered to listen. If you don’t marry him, none of us will ever be able to show our faces in London again. Half of your fellows have seen your unmentionables—twice in one night, from what Lady Franton told me!”

  “But—”

  “Enough!” he roared. “We will make the arrangements tomorrow.”

  Victoria opened her mouth again, but at her father’s furious glare she humphed and subsided. Tomorrow was still a good distance away. She would have ample time to explain things when her parents had calmed down enough to listen. One thing was certain, though: she was not going to marry Sinclair Grafton, the Marquis of Althorpe, under any circumstances. And certainly not just because he’d swooped in like a dark, seductive demon and said so.

  Chapter 2

  That damned bastard Marley was still managing to make a wreck of his life.

  It had been a close decision: stealing the viscount’s female companion, or his last breath. Given the consequences of last evening, Sinclair wasn’t certain which would ultimately prove more satisfying.

  Someone scratched at the master bedchamber door. Sin ignored it and continued shaving. His valet, though, straightened and glanced at the entry.

  “No,” Sinclair said before Roman could suggest anything.

  “It might be important. Your bride-to-be may have fled England.”

  “Or one of her other suitors may have arrived to shoot me.” One in particular he wouldn’t mind seeing. He had a lovely ivory-handled pistol in his pocket for just such an occasion.

  The scratch repeated, louder.

  “Master Sin, you—”

  “Stop being so damned jumpy.”

  The valet glared at him for another moment, then pushed away from the wall and stalked o
ver to yank open the door. “It’s Milo, my lord.”

  Not the least bit surprised that his valet had defied him, nor at the identity of his visitor, Sinclair went to work on his chin. “Thank you, Roman. Why don’t you see what he wants?”

  “I would, my lord, but he still isn’t speaking to me.”

  Somehow, whenever Roman said “my lord,” it sounded like a euphemism for “halfwit.” With a sigh, Sin dropped his razor into the shaving bowl. Picking up a towel, he climbed to his feet and faced the doorway. “Yes, Milo?”

  The butler stepped past Roman, making a point of not looking at the stocky gargoyle of a valet. “The post just delivered a letter for you, my lord. From a Lady Stanton.”

  Milo’s tone wasn’t much friendlier than the absolute silence with which he favored Roman. Sin wiped the remaining shaving soap from his face. “Thank you.” The butler handed over the missive, and his employer pocketed the folded paper without looking at it. “Milo, did you often interrupt my brother’s toilette to bring him insignificant correspondence?”

  The butler flushed. “No, my lord.” He lifted his pointed chin. “But I do not yet know your routine. Nor was I aware that the letter was insignificant. I apologize if I was in error.”

  “Apology accepted. Please send Lady Stanton a bouquet of red roses, with my compliments. And inform Mrs. Twaddle that I will not be taking my dinner here this evening.”

  Milo nodded. “Very good, my lord.”

  “Milo.”

  The butler turned around. “Yes, my lord?”

  Sinclair granted him a dark smile. “Never mind about Lady Stanton. I’ll see to her myself.”

  “I…yes. As you wish, my lord.”

  As soon as the butler’s heels passed over the threshold, Roman shut the door on him. “You should hand that Mr. Highboots his papers.”

  Sin shrugged as he returned to his dressing table. “Milo’s a competent enough butler.”

  “Well, I don’t like the idea of you keeping your brother’s staff on. One of ’em might just put a ball through your head some night.”