Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)

He gave a shout of laughter, remembering the way she’d tackled him to the bed after he’d finished. God, her inner thigh had been like silk against his smooth-shaven cheek. His trousers pulled snug, just at the memory. That was it. Shopping be damned. He couldn’t get inside her soon enough.

Without hesitation, he guided her into a hairpin turn and set a course back to the hotel. “We’ve had enough of the shops for today.”

“Ahem.”

Several pleasant hours later, Meredith cleared her throat as she emerged from the dressing room. One of the hotel’s girls had helped her dress in the red silk gown and assisted her with a sleek upswept coiffure. Now she was anxious to see Rhys’s reaction. He stood before the wardrobe, peering into the small mirror hung inside the door as he tied his cravat. When he took no notice of her gentle clearings of the throat, she coughed. Loudly, this time.

In response, he swore. He tugged the half-knotted cravat loose and started all over again.

So much for a dramatic entrance from the doorway. The soles of her new slippers glided over the carpet as she covered the space between them. He flicked her a brief glance, then turned his attention back to his cravat.

“Well …?” she prompted.

“Yes?” He frowned at the reflected knot of linen. “What is it?”

“How do I look?”

“Beautiful.”

“Rhys! You scarcely looked at me.”

“I don’t have to,” he said, his brow knitting in concentration as he unworked the knot for a third attempt. “You always look beautiful.”

“But …” But this will be my first evening out in fashionable society, and I’m terribly afraid that every person in the Theatre Royal will turn on cue, take one look at me, and instantly know I’m a country girl wearing a courtesan’s discarded gown.

With a growl of disgust, he picked apart the cravat again. “Goddamn fingers. Been broken one too many times.”

“Calm down.” She put a hand on his arm, turning him away from the mirror and toward her. “Let me? If a simple knot will serve, I can do it. I did Father’s for years.”

He closed his eyes and exhaled roughly as she wound and tied the cravat, tucking under the ends. “There.”

“Thank you.” His eyes fluttered open, and his sheepish gaze found hers. “You do look beautiful, by the way.”

“As beautiful as tulips?” She smoothed her hands over his shoulders and lapels. Even if she had to feed him the compliments, she would take them. She was that desperate for reassurance.

“A thousand times more.” He kissed her brow, then offered his arm. “Shall we?”

As they stepped out into the street, Meredith felt herself go pale. She’d wished she’d thought to fortify herself with some courage of the liquid variety.

“Ashworth?” The low voice came from behind them. “Ashworth, is that you?”

Chapter Eighteen

Meredith froze. Here it was, her first social test. That smooth, cultured voice could not possibly belong to a servant or shopkeeper. She would be introduced. She would have to speak. And before all that, she would have to somehow turn around in this voluminous red gown and manage not to tangle herself into something that resembled fresh sausage links. Following Rhys’s lead, she pivoted to face the newcomer. The tall, thin man bowed in greeting.

Rhys returned the bow, more fluidly than Meredith would have expected. “Corning,” he said. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

So curious, that she’d not seen Rhys bow before. All throughout their day in Bath, she’d noted an aristocratic grace to his movements that wasn’t often on display in Buckleigh-in-the-Moor. Well, and to whom would he be bowing there? He was the lord. Everyone in Buckleigh-in-the-Moor ought to be bowing to him.

It was at that moment—several seconds too late for etiquette—that Meredith remembered to curtsy. Damn, damn, damn.

“Unexpected indeed,” Corning said. “I wasn’t aware you were in Bath.”

“I wasn’t,” Rhys replied. “Until just last night.”

They all stood there awkwardly for a moment, staring at one another. Meredith took in the understated luxury of the man’s garments. They’d just come from the draper’s that morning; she knew what such fine cloth cost. She knew that kind of quality tailoring came even more dear.

For his part, the newcomer’s curious, mildly horrified gaze flicked over Meredith’s red silk gown.

Oh, dear. She’d just known she must look like a whore.

Shifting his weight, Rhys brushed a protective touch over her lower back. “Mrs. Maddox of Devonshire, allow me to present Lord Henry Twill, Viscount Corning. I served with his younger brother in Portugal.”

Good Lord. He must be a duke’s son. The man inclined his head, and Meredith curtsyed again, more deeply this time. Panicked thoughts tumbled in her mind. Words stuck on her tongue. How did one properly address a duke’s son, anyhow? As “Your Grace” or “my lord”?

In the end, she couldn’t say anything. By way of compensation, she forced a wan smile.

“Mrs. Maddox, is it?”

She nodded mutely. She was a fool. It seemed anything she could utter would indict her as a fraud—but in the end, her silence made the confession on its own.