Lavinia wished the words back the moment they came out.
I’ve never been kissed.
Yes, well, that would make a nice addition to his list. Will beg for kisses.
She bounded to her feet, only to take herself out of his horrified scrutiny.
Whatever was worse? The fact that she’d just sounded like a regular simpleton pleading for a bit of romance or that he hadn’t even offered to help her out.
Was the idea of kissing her really so repugnant?
This, she had to believe, was even more mortifying than that dreadful mare’s nest at Almack’s.
Well, thankfully, her only audience was Tuck and not the entire ton. And she wasn’t a spinster from Kempton for nothing. As always, Lady Essex’s staid advice carried her through.
Head up, nose tipped just so, she did her best to pretend those words had never left her lips. Holding out his coat like the veritable wall of Jericho between them, she said, “There. You are as good as new. Perhaps better.”
But he didn’t look better. He stared up at her as if she had suddenly grown a second head, and she found herself wavering as their gazes locked, and some inexplicable warmth spread through her.
Lavinia knew what she should be doing, tossing him his coat and fleeing for the house.
Instead, her thoughts were awhirl with discordant images . . . of tossing aside his coat . . . moving closer to him . . . letting herself be pulled into his arms . . .
How his hair needed to be trimmed and brushed back just so.
Her fingers curled together, all too willing to do the task, but oh, it just wasn’t done, she told herself. Yet how she wanted to trail her fingertips along the line of his jaw where a hint of stubble was already darkening.
It was all so confusing—whyever would she want such things?
Tuck Rowland was everything that wasn’t on her list. No income to speak of. He hadn’t a title (at least not yet), and he hadn’t two farthings to his name.
Heavens, his poor valet hadn’t been paid in months. No, make that nearly a year.
Alaster Rowland was a devil and a rogue and a knave.
Yet after a lifetime pursuit of propriety and respectability, all she wanted was to be in his arms again. Feel his warmth surround her. His lips on hers . . .
She wanted him to kiss her. Damn her foolish desires, she wanted him to kiss her.
Thoroughly. Recklessly.
“Yes, well, you are as good as new,” she repeated, looking anywhere but into his eyes, for she suspected he would be able to see the desire in her gaze, the want behind her confusion.
“I suppose I am.” He rose slowly, took a step closer to her, then turned his back to her. Glancing over his shoulder, he explained himself. “I do hate to impose, but I can’t get that jacket on by myself.”
She glanced down at the coat in her hands. The one tailored for a gentleman.
And a valet.
“So once again, I must do poor Falshaw’s job,” she teased awkwardly, shaking out the jacket and reluctantly stepping closer to him.
As he held out his arms she found herself—in a sense—surrounded by him. How he smelled—like a man ought, she realized. Not some perfumed Corinthian but like a man. Raw and ready, with a bit of bay rum, and something else . . . something so primal she didn’t quite know what it was.
Tuck . . . That was what it was. Him. And the scent had her insides quaking.
Because she wanted to inhale. Bury her nose in his back and breathe deeply.
Her fingers twisted into the fine wool of his jacket when what they really wanted to do was fan out over his shirt and explore the hard muscles beneath.
To touch him. To feel him.
Slowly she guided first one arm, then the other into the sleeves, pulling the coat up and onto his long limbs.
“Yes, like that,” he said over his shoulder, his face close to her ear as she worked to tug his jacket into place.
She was so close to him, more so even than dancing, for while dancing was proper, dressing a man, she discovered, was far more intimate.
As she went to bring his coat all the way up and over his shoulders, she came right up against him, her breasts pressed into his back, her hands sliding over the very muscles she longed to caress.
She wasn’t touching him that way, she told herself, she was merely helping him on with his jacket.
Yes, that was what she was doing.
And then, with one last tug, a last shift, the coat fell into place, and Lavinia found herself stepping back on unsteady feet, her legs wobbling a bit.
He turned around, and even in her inexperience, she knew what the light in his eyes meant. The turn of his lips, the very way he looked at her.
What he wanted. Which, startling enough, was rather the same thing she wanted.
Tuck stepped toward her and caught hold of her elbow, steadying her.
Yet if that was his intent, it failed utterly, for his touch—warm and sure and steady—sent her heart racing, the air in her lungs caught as if twisting in the same confusion as the rest of her senses.
Her passions.
Lavinia, proper, staid, steady, Lavinia Tempest, found herself inside a whirlwind of her own making.
“You make a lovely valet,” he said quietly, his voice smooth and coaxing.
And all she truly heard, all that mattered was that one word. Lovely.
He thought her lovely. Perhaps that was exactly what she’d wanted him to put on his list.
The air, trapped in her lungs, fled in a soft sigh, as he brought her in closer to him, then it was exactly as she had wanted—he was surrounding her.
And now that he was, her gaze locked with his, a passionate light full of promises.
Did you want to be kissed? Allow me . . .
His hand slid around her waist, his fingers curving around her, guiding her closer, while his head began to dip down.
He was going to kiss her.
Protest, push him away, don’t do this, her sensibilities raged, but in the face of the storm inside her, their disapproval was drowned out by the wayward hammering of her heart.
Her need to know. Whatever was it like to be kissed? How ever could she have this on her list if she didn’t know the truth.
Yes, kissing Tuck Rowland was a practical thing, she told herself. A necessary evil. At least, so she told herself for the next half a second.
For then he kissed her, and the deed began, in the touch of his lips, in the warmth of his Madeira-laced breath.
Intoxicating her. His lips were at first just a mere brush, then they were there, against hers, teasing her, tasting her.
This unknown, this forbidden taste, sent a raft of passions racing through her.
Chasing off any last whisper of propriety.
Come, follow me, his lips seemed to whisper, tempting and dangerous.
So she did. Follow him. Lavinia no more, she was suddenly Livy. Alive and lovely. And passionate, oh so passionate.
Her mouth opened to him, and his tongue brushed against hers, past this opening, tasting her.
His arms curved around her, tugging her closer, drawing her up and against him.
All of him, and she was breathless.
This was what it was like. To have him holding her, one hand pressed against her back, the other curved around her . . . Dear heavens, he was holding her by her backside . . . And it was delicious and wonderful all at once.
She clutched at the front of his jacket and barely gave a thought to the buttons there.
And she wondered in that moment if they were hanging on by a thread as she seemed to be doing. Dangling over an unknown abyss, as her breasts and that spot between her legs tightened, throbbed, ached to be given the same indecent attention that he was paying to her mouth—kissing her, deeply, exploring her.
Then, true to his reputation, as if he could hear the need inside her, he moved away from her lips and began to kiss the nape of her neck, a tender spot behind her ear that had her knees wobbling like a barely set pudding.
But it wasn’t enough for him, for his lips returned to hers, this time demanding, and she was ready for him now, ready to kiss him in return, when the wrenching creak of the kitchen door broke through the silence of the garden.
“Get out with you, you nasty beastie,” the cook complained, followed by a yowl of protest from Hannibal as he was hurried out the door by the end of the broom.
Lavinia and Tuck skittered apart, unraveling the passionate thread that had woven them together.
Nearly.
With Hannibal dispatched, the cook peered into the darkness, then, as if satisfied that she hadn’t heard anything else that needed taking care of, slammed the door shut with an aggrieved thud, the noise snapping Lavinia out of her heated reverie, and she took another step back, leaving the graveled path between them.
A small chasm, but a wide enough one to bring her to her senses.
Good heavens, she was already in dire straits as it was—but kissing Tuck Rowland?
A ruinous deed that seemed to prove everything the gossips were saying about her.
See if she isn’t just her mother’s daughter—wild and reckless.
No list would help her now, that she knew. No amount of propriety would change something very fundamental that she’d learned in the last few minutes.
Her mother’s impulsive fire was hers as well. And this man would be her downfall.
Her ruin.
Meanwhile, after such an ignominious exit, Hannibal had come stalking down the path, tail in the air, head cocked just so, yowling and complaining with every step. He stopped in front of Lavinia and looked at her, then turned his one good eye on Tuck.
He shot one more censorious look at Lavinia before heading to the garden wall and making his escape up and over and into Lord Wakefield’s garden.
If only Lavinia could escape as easily. For that was what she needed to do. Escape.
She should never have come out into the garden—whyever had she?
For the life of her, she could barely think, barely catch her breath, her lips still warm from his kiss, and it took her a moment to remember why.
Ah, yes, his plan.
. . . if you want to follow your sister to the altar, you had best seize this opportunity.
And seize it, she would. If only to find a proper match as quickly as possible. Before . . . before . . .
“You said there is a lady who can help me,” she asked, not daring to look up at him.
“Yes, but—”
“Can you arrange a meeting?”
“Yes, but—”
“Excellent. Tomorrow, if that is possible,” she told him and, gathering up her skirt, she quickly set off for the kitchen door. But she only went a few steps before she paused and turned to him. “Mr. Rowland—”
“Yes, Livy?”
“I want to be married. Properly so.” And with that, she hurried inside, wishing she could just as easily leave behind all the very improper thoughts that chased her back up to her room.
And it was then, when she’d closed her door, that she realized something else.
In her hand was a silver button.
One she’d plucked from his coat without realizing it.
Tuck left his uncle’s garden in a bit of a daze.
Good God! He’d kissed Livy. What the devil had he just done?
One moment she’d been helping him on with his jacket, and the next, she’d been in his arms.
His desire for her—had shaken him to the soles of his boots. And he couldn’t truly blame Piers’s wine cellar for this unexpected passion.
For he’d left one thing off his list.
She was utterly desirable. And he’d been a fool. Tempted and trapped.
Tuck groaned. Oh, no, this would never do. He was already in a mire—now he was merely filling his pockets with stones so he could sink faster.
And yet, when he’d kissed her, tasted those innocent lips of hers, he’d found himself breathless, caught.
That is until that demmed door had opened.
Then the moment had been lost.
Oh, and what had she said as she gone back into the house, stalking up the steps with the same ruffled dignity as her sister’s bloody cat.
I want to be married. Properly so.
And since he and “proper” were rarely on speaking terms, and that other word, married, left an icy pit in his stomach, he knew the only course of action was to see her matched as quickly as possible; and then, he supposed, he’d take an extended trip to the wilds of Scotland.
Or Ireland. Or Canada. Canada might be in order. From what he understood, it froze there.
Often.
Would definitely cool his ardor. Or so he could hope.
But still, Canada. Tuck shuddered.
Which left him only one choice, to move ahead with his reckless plan and see her matched as quickly as possible—but to do that, he needed to find a particularly elusive lady.
But luckily, he also knew her habits and preferences as well as his own, and so he went directly to the most likely of spots.
The most crowded social event of the evening. Lady Menley’s soiree—a sort of who’s who of the ton would be there, and it was always a crush.
But Tuck wasn’t interested in the exalted company or being seen. Instead, he made his way to the back of the house and slipped into the servant’s entrance and continued up the backstairs. From there he made an educated guess as to which room he sought and slipped inside.
“Ah, I thought you might be here,” he said, as he closed the door to Lord Menley’s private study, blotting out the noise from the crush of guests on the floor below.
Across the shadowy room, a woman in an elegant, yet simple black gown whirled around.
“Dear heavens, Tuck!” she scolded. “Announce yourself if you intend to move about as silent as a cat.”
“You have only yourself to blame,” he told her. “It was, after all, you who taught me that trick.”
“Nice to know you listened to something I had to say,” she said, huffing a bit and giving him a slip of the shoulder. “Now, state your business and leave. I have my own matters to attend to.”
“I can see that,” he replied, looking around the room. “But as you may have guessed, I need your help.”
“I imagine you do,” she replied, turning back to the wall of paintings behind her and studying them.
“So you’ve heard?” He had rather hoped she hadn’t. But then again, there wasn’t much in the ton that she didn’t know.
“About that ridiculous wager? Yes.” She let out a huffy sigh. “When will you ever learn?”
He had the feeling of being once again in short pants and having been caught out at some mischief. “I was a bit bosky at the time.”
“A good reason to steer clear of the bottle in the future.”
Tuck shrugged. Good advice, but hardly relevant now.
“Is she as cowhanded as they say?” the lady asked.
He shrugged. “She’s pretty, which is far more important.”
Her nose curled a bit. “Oh, my. You are in the suds.”
“You could help.” Tuck hoped he sounded convincing.
“Me?” She laughed.
“Whyever not?” he asked. Then, moving around the great desk in the middle of the room, he stopped beside her and did his own perusal of the paintings before them. After a moment, he reached out and took one of them off the wall, revealing a deep cubby in which a strong box sat hidden.
“How do you do that?” she asked, as she moved forward to tug the strongbox out of its hiding place and set it on the table. Opening up her reticule, she pulled out a set of picks. “Always know which painting hides the treasure?”
“Simple,” he replied. “It is always behind the ugliest piece. A copy. Something easily overlooked and hardly worthy of note.”
She shrugged, as if the entire collection was rather ugly and hardly worthy of note, then went to work opening the lock. “What do you think I can do for you? Or rather for that poor, unfortunate girl?”
This was a good omen. He’d piqued her curiosity. “Well, you did a rather excellent job of rising up in Society,” he said slowly. “And you are the most elegant creature I’ve ever met.”
“Flattery and Spanish coin won’t work with me.” Then she glanced at him and frowned. “I haven’t the time.”
“Of course you do. And you will help me because you love a challenge.”
Sniff.
Yes, well, apparently flattery really wasn’t going to work. So he got to the point.
“I’ve taken her to two different dancing masters. Neither of them could help. Nor do I have time to find another.”
“What about that dreadful fraud from Buxton?” she suggested. “The one who claims to be an exiled Russian prince.”
Tuck shook his head. “In Newgate. Stole a bracelet.”
The lady sighed. “Truly, I don’t have the time. Get the Honorable to help you. He’s the best there is.”
Tuck’s head was shaking even before she finished. “No, not Hero. I cannot risk—”
Again that snort, that bit of derision. “Cannot risk! I’d say you already have.”
She had a point there. Tuck ran his hand through his hair and shuddered.
Introduce the very proper Miss Lavinia Tempest to the most dishonorable, improper man in London? Madness.
Not that the lady before him wasn’t above pointing out the obvious. “What was it? A monkey you wagered? And how much do you have on hand? A few pence, I’d guess.”
He nodded, not all that happy to be reminded what was at risk. Or that the sum was actually four times that.
She straightened and looked him in the eye. “Lord Ilford will be all too happy to put a bullet in you. He’s a dangerous enemy. And word has it that he’s been nosing about the Dials. Wants to make trouble for Wakefield.”
“I won’t let him,” Tuck told her.
“You won’t have much say in the matter if he shoots you first.” She went back to work on the lock, and, after a few moments, she spoke again. “I don’t see that you have any choice in the matter—you need me and the Honorable. I’ll send word to him tonight, and you bring her by the house tomorrow afternoon. Not before three—I have a long evening planned.”
Tuck nodded.
She smiled at him and, taking another glance at the box, plucked a hairpin free from her elaborate do, then, with a twist of the hairpin, the lock sprang open; and now her grin was triumphant as she reached inside the strongbox and pulled out a large ruby necklace.
Tuck admired it, then said, “I don’t know why you are bothering. It’s paste. As is everything else you’ll find in there.”
“Paste? I don’t think—” Still, she held up the piece and studied it in the light. After turning it this way and that, she muttered a very unladylike phrase and set it aside. As she plucked out one jeweled treasure after another, Tuck’s pronouncement turned out to be all too true.
She pushed away from the table and heaved a sigh. “You might have said something before I went to all this trouble,” she chided, arms crossed over her chest.
“But, Mother, it is always such a pleasure to see you at work,” he told her as he gathered up the discarded worthless bits and put them carefully back in their box for safekeeping.
She sniffed, for she knew his words were a lie. “Whyever do people keep such worthless baubles locked up?” she asked as he returned the strongbox to its hiding place. “It is really most disheartening.”
“Appearances, madame, appearances.” He paused, then went to work putting everything back to rights. Just as he always did. “Wasn’t that the first lesson you ever taught me?”