But he could not, because the moment the words were out, the carriage slowed. He leaned into her, placing a long, lingering kiss at the edge of her dress, where she strained for breath. “Tell me we are at my home.”
She laughed at the desperation in his voice, only because it was similar to her own. She moved off him, wishing she didn’t have to. Wanting to stay there forever. “We are. I thought here, rather than the club.”
He leaned over to help rearrange her skirts, and she loved the way his fingers lingered on the curve of her knee, the slope of her calf. “You thought well. I do not want us meeting at the club.”
“Why not?” she asked as he lifted one foot and returned her slipper.
“I won’t be seen with you there.”
The words stung. “But you can sleep with me?”
He stilled, his gaze meeting hers, hot and full of promise. “First, you misunderstand. I don’t want you there. I want you far from there. Far from scandal and sin and vice. I want to be the only scoundrel in your company.
“And second . . .” He lifted her other foot, stroking his fingers down the arch of it before placing it in her slipper. “I assure you, there won’t be any sleeping.”
The words sent a thread of pleasure through the core of her, as surely as if he’d lay her bare and whispered them against her skin.
He set her foot gently to the floor of the carriage, and she said, “Take me inside.”
White teeth flashed. “With pleasure.”
Chapter 13
. . . Truly, there are few stars in this Season’s galaxy that shine even half as bright as our fair Lady G—. She grows ever more desired at public functions, and we have no doubt that the eligible bachelors of the ton desire her for functions that take place exclusively in chapels. As for Lord L—, however, as their company seems well-kept . . .
. . . In sad corners of ballrooms we have recently found poor, lost little lamb, Lady S—, once a welcome member of the Pitiless Pretties of the ton, now exiled for sins we cannot imagine. We have high hopes for her restoration, however, as she was seen dancing with the Marquess of E— . . .
The gossip pages of the Weekly Courant,
May 1, 1833
His house was massive, gilded and gorgeous, every inch of it appointed in the height of fashion. She stood in the main marble foyer, turning slowly, looking at the high ceilings and the wide, curving staircase that led to the upper floors of the house.
“This is beautiful,” she said, turning to face him. “I’ve never seen a home so perfectly designed.”
He leaned against a marble column nearby, arms crossed, gaze focused on her. “It keeps rain from our heads.”
She laughed. “It does more than that.”
“It’s a house.”
“Give me a tour.”
He waved an arm to the doors on the far end of the foyer. “Receiving room, receiving room, breakfast room.” And to the ones behind her. “Cynthia’s morning room, another receiving room.” He paused. “I don’t entirely know why we need so many.” He indicated a long hallway that led to the back of the house. “The kitchens and swimming pool are that way. The dining room and ballroom are one flight up.” He returned his attention to her. “The bedchambers are lovely. They deserve personal inspection.”
She laughed at his impatience. “Swimming pool?”
“Yes.”
“You realize that a swimming pool is not precisely a common addition to a London town house.”
“It’s not precisely a common addition to London,” he said, lifting one shoulder. “But I like being clean, so it makes for excellent sport.”
“So do any number of men. They take baths.”
He raised a brow. “I take baths, as well.”
“I’d like to see it.”
“You’d like to see me take a bath?” He looked positively thrilled by the idea.
She laughed. “No. I’d like to see your swimming pool.”
He considered refusing—she could see it in his eyes. After all, a tour of his home was not part of their agreed agenda for the evening. But she stood firm, until he took her hand in his—warm and large and rough from years of work—and led her through the house, down the dark hallway and through the kitchens.
He came to a closed door, and set his hand to the handle, turning back to meet her gaze, he opened the door, and indicated that she should pass into the dimly lit room beyond.
She stepped inside, first noting the barely-there light that came from a half-dozen fireplaces on the far side of the room, and then noticing how very warm it was in the room.
“Stay here,” he said softly at her ear, pushing past her. “I shall light the lamps.”
She stood in the warm darkness, watching as he put a match to a lamp nearby, casting a small sphere of golden light in the massive room. The light was at the edge of the swimming pool, still and dark, and utterly compelling. She moved without even noticing, drawn to the mysterious water as Duncan followed the edge of the pool, lighting more lamps, until the room came into view.