The Untamed MacKenzie

“Being accused?” Fellows asked sharply. “Has someone said that to you?”

“No, but they are all thinking it. I can feel them thinking it. Out there.” She waved her hand at the windows. “Even you think it.”

“I don’t. That’s why I’m trying to find the culprit.”

“If you didn’t have a doubt, you wouldn’t go to such pains to keep me from being arrested.”

Fellows stepped in front of her, forcing her to stop. “Let me make this clear to you, Louisa. You’re right that everything at this moment points to you. But if you believe our system of justice will prove your innocence, only because you’re innocent, you are wrong. If a judge gets it into his head that you’re a giddy young woman who goes around poisoning potential suitors, nothing will change his mind, not the best barrister, not the jury. Most of the judges at the Old Bailey are about a hundred years old and regard young women as either temptresses or fools. Would you like to face one of them? Or a gallery of eager people off the streets, coming to mock you? Journalists writing about what you look like standing in the dock? Every expression, every gesture you make?”

Louisa’s face lost color. “No, of course not.”

“Then let me do my job and keep you out of court. I wish you didn’t hate me for it, but if the price of keeping you free is your hatred, so be it.” And a hard price to pay it was.

Louisa’s eyes glittered with tears. “No, I don’t hate you. You must know that. I never could.”

She was too beautiful. Her hair was coming down in soft little ringlets, the red shining in the April sunshine. Many English aristocratic families had Anglo-Saxon ancestry, and it was evident in Louisa—pale skin, bright hair, eyes of brilliant green. Fellows could drown himself in her beauty and never want to come up for air.

He caught her hands. The touch of her warm flesh sent his heart pounding and swept away the last fragment of his self-discipline.

He pulled her by her fisted hands against him, her soft body becoming the focus of his world. Fellows heard nothing, saw nothing but her beautiful face and eyes, her lips parting as he came down to her.

The first taste was intoxicating. Sweetness clung to Louisa’s lips from the tea she’d drunk, laced with sugar and cream.

He needed more. Fellows opened her mouth with his, sweeping his tongue inside. Louisa made a noise in her throat, and clutched the lapels on his coat. She kissed him clumsily, unpracticed, but eager.

She smelled of lilacs and dusty silk, and a warmth that was all Louisa. They were alone in silence and sunshine. Fellows slid his arms around her, finding the curve of her waist. Her bodice’s smooth fabric was thin, the bones of her corset the only barrier between him and her soft skin.

If he could strip away the layers of her—satin, lawn, lace—and touch her, he knew he’d fill the gaping hole in his life.

She was against him now, her br**sts to his chest, her fingers tightening on his coat. Fellows tasted more of her. Her lips were soft, hot, but seeking, learning . . . wanting. He was hard for her, growing harder by the second.

I need her. I would do anything . . .

A sound outside the door made Fellows break the kiss. Louisa backed away, her eyes wide, breath coming fast. Fellows let her go, finding his fists clenched, his heart pounding, raw emotion tearing at his control.

But he needed control. They were in the Duke of Kilmorgan’s London house, with servants moving to and fro outside the door, the lady of the house likely to enter at any moment. Eleanor had slyly left them alone, but if she opened the door and found virginal Louisa in Fellows’ arms, he ravishing her mouth, even Eleanor wouldn’t be able to look the other way.

Louisa’s fingers went to her lips. The first time she’d kissed him, she’d smiled warmly at him. The second time, Fellows had left her abruptly and hadn’t seen her reaction. Now Louisa looked stunned, even ashamed.

Fellows made himself move around her to the door. He knew he should say something, a polite good-bye, but he couldn’t. Politeness had gone to hell and didn’t matter.

He found his hand shaking as he reached for the door handle, then he was in the hall, and going down the stairs, the encounter over.

No, not over. Fellows might have left Louisa behind, but he felt her hot kiss linger on his lips for the rest of the day and on into the night.

***

“Why aren’t you coming, exactly?” Louisa asked Eleanor six hours later.

“Because I am quite unwell.” Eleanor lounged on a sofa in her bedchamber, looking perfectly healthy as she bounced Alec on her knees. She wore a dressing gown instead of a ball gown, and was nowhere near ready to leave for Isabella’s supper ball.

Louisa in her finery had arrived at Eleanor and Hart’s, having agreed that Hart and Eleanor would escort her tonight. A young, unmarried lady did not go to a ball alone. When Louisa had argued that she could simply ride over to the assembly rooms with Isabella, Eleanor had negated the idea. If Louisa went with Isabella, she would be the sister working behind the scenes, not the young, eligible earl’s daughter announced to the crowd arriving with the Duke and Duchess of Kilmorgan.

Louisa had also questioned the need for them all to leave from the Grosvenor Square house—Hart and Eleanor could collect her from Isabella’s on their way. But no, Eleanor wanted them all to be seen leaving from the ducal mansion. She seemed adamant.

Usually it was easier to simply agree with Eleanor when she was determined, because she could talk any argument to death—Eleanor would go off onto many and varied tangents until everyone forgot what the original disagreement had been. What Eleanor wanted wasn’t unreasonable, so Louisa had given in before Eleanor had time to launch into one of her impossible speeches.