He swooped down on her, disentangling her from the
chair. "I'm not even going to ask if you're hurt," he declared, lifting her up and setting her on her feet. "If you are, it's only what you deserve." He smoothed down the back of her skirt with a degree of calculated vigor. "Don't let me hear any more discussion on fallen women or debauchery."
"No, Hugo," she said with a docility every bit as feigned as her earlier fright. Her cheeks were pink with exertion and what he knew was arousal, and her eyelashes fluttered as she fixed him with a melting look. "And don't flirt with me."
"I'm not," she said truthfully. "Shall I lock the door?" "Shall you what?"
For answer, she ran to the door and turned the key. "There now." She leaned back against the door, her breast lifting with her swift breath, her eyes dancing with invitation, the rich sensual currents flowing fast in their deep blue depths. "We could be quick. We wouldn't have to take our clothes off."
Hugo was lost anew. Vaguely he wondered if he would ever be free of her spell, ever be able to resist her when she drew him into her realm of magic in this way. She was so sure of herself, of what she wanted, of what she was offering… and she was so sure of his response. She was archetypal woman.
She raised her skirt and petticoat slowly, her eyes never leaving his face. "We could do it standing up. Can it be done in that way?"
"Yes, it can," he said savagely, consumed with the pure, primitive fire of lust. He crossed to her, tore loose the string of her drawers so that they fell in a silken rustle to her ankles, and unfastened his britches.
"Brace yourself." He pushed her knees apart with his own knee and she laughed… an exultant laugh… as she obeyed, holding her skirts high, bracing herself
with her shoulders against the door, feeling the molding of the paneling pressing into her back.
He entered the velvet moistness of her body with one swift thrust and she drew a shaky breath, smiling at him with luminous joy. He gripped her hips with both hands, his fingers curling into the satin skin as he drove himself within her. He could feel her pleasure mounting with each thrust just as he could see it on her face. Her tongue touched her lips and she laughed again. She never closed her eyes, not since the time he'd asked her not to, and he thought he would fall into the volcano of passion that beckoned with their midnight fires. "Now," she whispered suddenly. "Hugo, now!" "I know, sweetheart," he said. "But wait." "I can't."
"You can." He held himself still, deep within her. She held her breath in an agony of suspense, her body thrumming around his flesh. And then he moved and she cried out as her climax ripped through her.
Hugo's head fell against the door as his own body swirled in the vortex of delight. Only when the passion was spent and his head cleared did it occur to him that he had been outfoxed again, craftily manipulated out of his anger and taken into a world far from the sway of the painted devils. How could he suffer guilt making such wondrous love to this uninhibited, artful minx who knew a lot more about the world than he'd ever given her credit for? Or was it that she knew a lot more about himself?
Chapter 20
"May I offer you a glass of claret, duke?" Hugo gestured politely toward the decanters on the sideboard.
"Thank you… thank you." His august visitor watched as the wine was poured. "I trust you look kindly upon my suit."
Hugo bowed in acknowledgment. He could hardly look unkindly upon the suit of the Duke of Alresford. It would be a brilliant match for Chloe. The duke was no fortune hunter and a mere ten years older than herself. "The decision must of course rest with my ward," he said. "Chloe has a mind of her own." He smiled and raised his own glass of claret. He was becoming expert at appearing to drink in social situations without doing so.
"I flatter myself that she is not altogether indifferent," his grace said. It would be unspeakably vulgar to allude to his title and fortune, but his smugness was allusion enough.
"Then if you've discussed this with Chloe, duke, what more can I say?"
"Oh, goodness me, no." The duke made haste to defend himself from any possibility of impropriety. "I wouldn't broach such a subject without your permission, Sir Hugo. But I have been led to have hopes…" He gestured vaguely. "Miss Gresham is all condescension."
"Is she indeed," Hugo murmured. Chloe's private mockery of her pompous suitor had enlivened the din-
ner table on more than one occasion. However, he considered it his bounden duty to promote the duke's suit. Not that he had much hope of Chloe's bending to his will.
"Rest assured, duke, I will inform my ward of the inestimable honor of your proposal as soon as she returns from her ride."
Alresford put down his glass and took his leave. "Then I may expect a response before tomorrow."
"I believe so," Hugo said gravely, escorting his guest to the front door.
Alresford, like the rest of Chloe's increasing cast of suitors and friends, had come to accept the eccentric Samuel as butler and doorman and took his hat and cane from the earringed sailor with barely a thought about his oddity. "I await Miss Gresham's response most eagerly," he said.
"To what?" Samuel demanded, closing the door behind him.
"A proposal of marriage. The lass is being offered the opportunity to become a duchess."
"Much store she'll set by that," Samuel stated. " 'Ave you seen 'er take off 'is funny way of wrinklin' 'is nose?"
"I have. Where's Peg?"
"Sittin' by the kitchen fire with 'er feet in a mustard bath, eatin' gingerbread," Samuel informed him. "lazy little devil, she is."
"She's entitled," Hugo said. "At least until she's had the baby. Then we'll see what's to be done with her."
"I expect the lass 'as some notion."
"I wish she'd come up with a plan for that damn bear," Hugo said grimly. "It's growing like a weed."
The sounds of laughter came from beyond the front door, and Samuel pulled it open.
"Oh, thank you, Samuel." Chloe walked in, her eyes
bright with amusement, her cheeks pinkened with cold. She was followed by three young men, also laughing.
Hugo looked in vain for some female chaperoning presence… one of her escort's sisters or at the very least a maid. But his ward had a lamentable habit of dispensing with such niceties. For some reason she seemed to avoid censure by all but the highest sticklers for behavior that in anyone else would be considered fast. But he'd seen her charm the severest matrons with the sweet smile and soft voice that she knew how to use to advantage. A crafty little fox was Miss Gresham.
"Hugo, you're acquainted with Lord Bentham and Sir Frank Manton?" Chloe was saying, drawing off her gloves. "But I don't know if you know Denis DeLacy. He's only recently come to town."
Hugo felt the ground shift beneath his feet. The young man was the spitting image of his father, Brian DeLacy. Brian, a close friend of Stephen Gresham's, had been a chief player in the crypt. Brian had witnessed his friend's death.
"I believe you knew my father, Sir Hugo," Denis was saying, offering a frank smile. "He died two years ago, but I seem to remember his mentioning your name."
It could be perfectly innocent. They had been friends of a kind, members of the same social set. But what if Brian had told his son that Hugo had been a member of the Congregation? Did this young man know the story of Stephen Gresham's death?
Hugo forced himself to smile and shake the man's hand. He murmured some platitude while his thoughts tumbled in his head. They were all sworn to secrecy over the duel… a secrecy that surely encompassed a man's son. But supposing Brian had broken his oath?