The Lady Hellion (5 page)

“No, indeed, I am not. You know what I think.” He took a step closer and whispered, “I think you are a fake, Sir Stephen. You are in disguise, posing as a member of our elite little world. And I mean to find you out.”

Perspiration gathered under her arms. If only Tolbert knew how close to the truth he was . . .

She lifted her chin as she tried to put a little distance between them. “You’re half-cracked. I’ve been in London for nearly a year.” God save her for telling this lie. “I’m cousin to the Viscount Quint.”

“That lunatic?” Tolbert laughed derisively. “Everyone knows he’s mad.”

It wasn’t anything she hadn’t heard said about him countless times over the years. In the
ton,
anything beyond the normal routine was thought lunacy—and Quint was anything but normal, thank heavens. Though she wanted to leap to Quint’s defense, she lifted a shoulder. “He seems perfectly fit to me.”

“And you are lodging there, with Quint?”

She forced a nod. Thank heavens Quint never allowed visitors. All she needed to do was get Taylor to tell a small fib if anyone called for Sir Stephen.

“Good,” he continued, dark brown gaze glittering in triumph. “Then I shall pass that information along to my second. You will be hearing from him.” He moved forward and Sophie retreated until her back hit the wall. Tolbert poked her shoulder. “There still is the matter of my honor.”

“Will you accept an apology?”

“No. I will not. As a matter of fact”—he grabbed her arm roughly—“I think I should keep an eye on you until morning, when we can settle this as gentlemen.”

Panic froze her insides. Stay with Tolbert until morning? He’d discover her lie in a ridiculously short amount of time, long before the sun came up.

“Here, now.” A beefy hand reached between them and pushed Tolbert back a few paces. Sophie glanced up and found Lord MacLean there, his normally jovial expression gone hard as he stared at Tolbert. “The gent has tried to apologize for whatever transgression you’ve suffered. Now you’re to accept his apology and forgive the slight, Tolbert. Do you not even ken how it’s done?”

Tolbert’s face twisted in anger. “This is between gentlemen, MacLean.
English
gentlemen. So you may run along now,
laddie.
” Sophie heard the snickering of Tolbert’s companions.

MacLean rocked back on his heels. “Jesus, you’re even stupider than your mountain of debt suggests. Are you gonna apologize, man?”

Tolbert glanced over his shoulders at his friends, who were all avidly observing the exchange, then turned back to MacLean. “I never apologize.”

MacLean just grinned and scratched his jaw. “I suppose I’ve been itchin’ for another early morning. You’ll hear from my second, Tolbert.”

Sophie saw Tolbert’s throat work, though he tried to put a brave face on it. “And just whom might serve as your second?”

MacLean slapped Sir Stephen on the back, which nearly caused Sophie to pitch facedown on the carpet. “This
laddie
here will do it. What do you say?”

Both men turned their attention on her. “O-of course,” Sophie sputtered in her deepest voice. “I’d be honored.”

Quint finished the instructions to his steward, folded the paper, and sealed it. The one positive light on his illness: The viscountcy had never been in better shape. His investments were flourishing, accounts perfectly balanced, all correspondence answered. When Quint finally did succumb to madness, whoever assumed guardianship of the estate would have an easy time of it.

Taylor appeared after a brisk knock. “My lord, if you’ll pardon the interruption.”

“What is it, Taylor?”

“Your presence is requested in the ballroom.”

The ballroom? The butler had to be mistaken. “The ballroom has been closed up for years. Who would—?” His jaw snapped shut. He didn’t need to ask because he already knew. Unbelievable. Once more she’d gained access to the house—and after he’d explicitly told her not to return two nights ago.

His eyes narrowed on Taylor. “Well, did she pick the lock or did we leave the door open?”

“Neither, your lordship.”

Quint rose and came around the desk. “Let her in, did you?”

Taylor had the grace to appear sheepish, his ears turning crimson. “Her ladyship was quite persuasive.”

She always was, he thought, as he took the stairs. Quint knew better than to lay blame at his butler’s feet. Indeed, he was keenly aware of precisely whom to take to task.

The ballroom door stood ajar, light spilling into the corridor. Taylor must’ve instructed one of the maids to set the candles. Quint wasn’t sure how to feel about his staff rushing to do Sophie’s bidding. Though, to be fair, his staff likely relished any activity to fight the tedium of the Beecham household.

He entered, ready to give her what for, and stopped short at the sight that greeted him. Long legs—long,
shapely
legs—encased in buckskin breeches. Tall, black boots. A short military-style jacket that women favored for riding. All the breath left his chest and his cock twitched, instinct swiftly taking over. Sweet, merciful cadmium . . .

When he recovered enough to speak, he noticed her amused half-smile. A hundred questions leapt to mind—starting with
why?
—but what came out of his mouth was, “Did Taylor see you like this?”

“No, I kept my cloak on until he left. Though I hardly see why that matters.”

The idea of anyone witnessing her so . . . so
revealed
did not sit well. The outline of her lithe body clearly visible, it was a sight to make any man lose his mind with lust. And Quint realized, gut churning with possessiveness, that he didn’t want any man to see her. Any man save him, of course.

“Why are you here?”

She pulled her arms from behind her back to reveal two foils. “I thought you might like some exercise.”

Fear replaced the stirrings of desire. Since the shooting, he hadn’t intentionally raised the rate of his heart for worry of another fit. What if exercise worsened his condition? Granted, each fit had been triggered by a specific event or thought, like an attempt to go outside or the sound of gunfire. He doubted fencing would hurt, but how could he be sure?

“I don’t think—”

“You are not allowed to refuse.” She executed a single feint with her right arm. “It will do you some good, in my opinion.”

He rubbed the back of his neck and contemplated his research. If it was hereditary, as he suspected, then nothing would prevent the impending madness. Not to mention, if he fell ill, he could leave or order her from the room.

Without dwelling on that last thought, he closed the distance between them, held out his hand. “Where did you get these swords?”

“I borrowed them,” she said with a lift of her shoulder and handed him a foil.

“And what about those clothes? Did you borrow them as well?”

She glanced down at herself. “No, they are mine. The breeches are unbelievably comfortable. Dresses are impractical garments, especially for fencing.”

“A duel, scuttling about the mews after dark, not to mention all the excursions with Julia over the years . . . I swear, you court danger at every turn. Has anyone the vaguest idea what you’re about?”

She sauntered away, hips swinging, providing him with the precise view he wanted—and he froze.
Saint’s teeth,
his imagination had not done justice to the perfect, high roundness of her buttocks.

“I do not require a keeper, if that is what you are implying. Now, shall we?” She spun and lifted her arm into correct position, weapon pointed at him with her front foot forward.

“Have you fenced before?”

“I’ve taken a few lessons at Angelo’s academy. You’ll not have an easy time besting me.”

“Is that so?” He hefted the foil, tested the weight in his hand to get a feel for it. “Fencing is a thinking man’s—or woman’s—sport. You need to plan ahead. Not react rashly.” Lifting his arms, he stretched out his back and shoulders. “Can you keep a level head, I wonder?”

“We may never know if you cannot cease stalling.”

“
Allez!
” he growled and lunged at her.

She defended his parry, and returned with a thrust of her own. He soon realized she had skill. What she lacked in strength she made up for with speed, her movements precise and quick. She obviously had not lied about the lessons, and he suspected she’d taken more than just a few. Despite his resolve to go gently with her, he soon found himself perspiring and breathing hard from the exertion. It felt . . . exhilarating.

“You’re smiling,” she said, her breath equally labored.

“Am I? It must be because this is so terribly easy.”

Her eyes flashed and she began attacking him with renewed vigor. He nearly laughed. She was utterly predictable.

“Is that the best you can do, Lady Sophia?” He led a charge of his own, driving her backward as she defended herself with the blade.

“You’ve been holding back,” she accused, the flush on her cheeks deepening as her movements faltered.

This time, he did laugh. “Is your shoulder burning yet?”

“Like the fires of Hades!” she snapped, then flicked her wrist and slid his blade out from between their bodies. She stepped in close, so close he could see the beads of sweat on her brow, the damp tendrils at her temple curling so enticingly—

Her foot shot out behind his ankle, pulling, while at the same time her free hand pushed on his shoulder. Even distracted, Quint saw her intention. Subtlety had never been Sophie’s strength. With a smirk, he shifted his weight to counterbalance her effort, which caused her to lose her equilibrium. He wrapped an arm around her waist to keep her from tumbling to the ground.

“A nice effort—for a woman,” he taunted, attempting to infuriate her.

He failed miserably. Something sparked in her eyes—but it was not anger. Instead, it was hot and wicked, and her gaze dropped to his mouth.

She was thinking of kissing him. He had no doubt. With her lips parted, the rate of her breathing significantly increased, and her stare locked on his mouth, she had one thing on her mind.

And he wanted nothing more than to oblige her.

They were close, hips aligned, with their legs melded together in a tangle. His body stirred, a purely physical reaction he could not hide, and he itched to touch her. To taste her. The problem was, he didn’t want to be a “momentary fancy” this time. If he kissed her, she could still say she hadn’t wanted it. He needed her to be sure. Needed her to kiss him of her own free will.

It was the same reason he’d never had a mistress. Yes, most every man he knew kept a woman tucked away in a small house somewhere convenient, but Quint could not see the logic in it. He did not want a woman to pretend, to allow his advances only because she coveted his coin. Not that he hadn’t ever paid for a tumble in his youth, but honest passion, true desire between two willing people, was a hundredfold more satisfying.

He wanted Sophie willing.

But what then? A mad husband was a terrible burden for a wife.

Suddenly, she used her free palm to push his chest. He dropped his arm to release her. Springing forward, she wasted no time advancing, her blade high and fast as it slashed toward him, and he convinced himself he’d been mistaken about the interest in her eyes. Perhaps a result of the fencing? She attacked him logically, precisely, and he countered with a combination she did not expect. Her muscles shook from the effort, exhaustion on her face. He could nearly taste the victory.

“Wait!” she cried. “There is something in my boot.”

Panting, Quint lowered his foil and watched as she turned, presenting him with her backside. She bent over, slowly, and he could not tear his eyes away from those lush, gentle swells encased in tight fabric, not even if the ghost of Newton himself suddenly sprung up from the floor.

They were perfect. Each just the right size for a man’s hand. He swallowed, his groin tightening. Breasts drew some men, legs others. Quint had always loved a woman’s buttocks. Soft, plush, and ideal for cushioning a man’s hips. And right now, Sophie’s were poised high as she played with her boot, positioned exactly as if a man might take her from behind.

His cock filled, blood rushing at the mental picture. It would take little effort to free himself, lower her breeches, and bury deep—

In a blur, she pivoted, blade up and ready. Before he could blink, the tip landed square on his chest.

He glanced down, frowned, and tried to shake the lust from his brain.

“You
lose
.” She grinned and straightened. “Not bad—for a woman.”

Chapter Five

“You tricked me,” he accused.

“Yes, that’s true,” Sophie readily admitted, bouncing on her toes. The thrill of the victory coursed through her veins.

“I thought you had something in your boot,” he said unhappily, like a petulant child.

“Unlike you, I am not bound by any gentleman’s code. I may fight as unfairly as I wish. And you lost.” She couldn’t help but grin. “You cannot think I’ll apologize for it.”

His gaze narrowed. “You are quite determined when you want something. Do you let anything stop you once you’ve decided on a course?”

“No, not if I can help it. And admit it, you are surly merely because you did not foresee my brilliant plan.”

“Brilliant plan?” he scoffed. “A rock in your boot?”

“It worked, did it not?”

An annoyed huff served as his answer.

Sophie laughed as she started for her abandoned cloak. Time to return home before her absence was noted. She was also having trouble concentrating with Quint in such a sweaty and disheveled state. The opening on his shirt had widened, showing a patch of chest lightly covered in dark, springy hair, now damp from exertion. It was deliciously improper and intimate, and every part of her tingled at the sight.

He’d almost kissed her. For a moment, with his arm around her, she’d felt something powerful between the two of them. And it scared her how much she’d wanted it.

She picked up her cloak, turned to him, and cleared her throat. “Quint, I wanted to apologize for the other evening, with the pistols. I should not have fired without warning, or at least asking first.”

He grimaced. “I overreacted, and for that I beg your pardon. I haven’t heard a pistol fired since that night and it . . .” He trailed off.

“It what?”

“Nothing. Got a bit rattled, is all.”

She’d seen him through the door. Rattled? He’d been nearly apoplectic. “You did a very brave thing that night,” she said, “trying to stop Maggie’s attacker.”

“It was stupid of me. I didn’t think it through. If I had, I would have grabbed a weapon, at least.”

“You couldn’t have known—”

Quint held up a hand, cocked his head. When he did not speak, Sophie asked, “What is it?”

He turned to her, intensely serious. Heavens, those beautiful, full lips. She could not help but stare. “Did you hear that?” he asked, quietly.

“No. What should I have heard?”

He frowned. “I heard glass breaking. A window, perhaps.” He beckoned her with his hand. “Come. I need to see what’s happened.”

She held up her palms, as if to ward him off. “What if someone sees me? I believe it prudent that I remain here.”

He sighed. “First, I know you shall scamper away the second my back is turned, and since there may well be a threat on the property, I should like to keep an eye on you. Second, if there is a threat, it is best you are with me instead of here by yourself.”

“Nonsense. More than likely it’s a mouse.”

“I do not have mice, at least not ones large enough to break glass.” He lifted his foil and removed the cap covering the tip for safety. “And you are being illogical, Sophie. Do as I say now, or we waste precious time in an argument I will undoubtedly win regardless.”

She’d seen Quint in a debate and he was very, very good. And they both knew it was not a mouse. Reluctantly, she lifted the other weapon. Quint was already to the door, so she had to hurry to catch up. He stopped abruptly and she nearly slammed into his back. “Quiet,” he said over his shoulder.

He crept into the hall and Sophie followed, staying close. Silence echoed throughout the house, and the carpet muffled their footsteps as they traveled toward the stairs. Quint’s home tended toward the austere, she’d noticed. The furnishings and carpets were all in excellent condition, but the space held no life. There were no flowers to brighten it up. No family portraits or other artwork she’d seen, and his study seemed the only room he actually used. Heavy covers concealed the furniture, as if the lodgings were temporary and he planned to move at any moment.

At the bottom of the stairs, he paused to listen. She waited on the first step, feeling ridiculous. The odds that a person had gained entry to his house—

A floorboard creaked somewhere near the back of the house, and Sophie held her breath. Perhaps one of the servants was not abed yet. Foil raised, Quint started in the direction of the sound. Before they’d taken a dozen steps, a shadow slipped out of Quint’s study and into the corridor. A man. He was wrapped in a brown cloak pulled low over his forehead. The shadow glanced their way and froze, and Sophie saw he was wearing a black mask, like some sort of highwayman.

“Do not move,” Quint ordered the man and took a step toward the study.

In an instant, the intruder bolted. He ran toward the dining room, which Sophie knew would lead to the terrace. Quint sprinted after him, Sophie right behind. He was faster, though she did her best to keep up. In the dining room, she saw the figure throw open the French door and disappear outside. Quint skidded to a halt at the threshold, and she heard him utter a curse.

“Why are you stopping?” she shouted. “Go after him!”

When she came alongside, he was standing there, still as a statue, his face contorted in anger and misery.

“What is wrong? Are you ill?”

“No,” he snapped.

“You are letting him get away?”

He said nothing, his lips pressed tightly together.

Confused but determined, she ran out onto the terrace. “Then I shall get him myself!”

 

 

Quint stared, mouth agape, as Sophie streaked across his terrace like some sort of avenging Valkyrie. He hadn’t thought for a moment that she would give chase, alone. Had she no sense at all? Whoever that man was, he would not want to risk discovery, which meant he’d hurt Sophie without remorse. Christ, she could be hurt. Killed.

For God’s sake, man,
he told himself.
Just go.
She should not be forced to risk herself because he was too bloody afraid. What kind of a man was too scared to leave the house?
Do it,
his brain shouted.

He took a deep breath and placed his foot on the stone beyond the dining room. Before he could take another step, his heart tripped and cold perspiration broke out all over his body. No, not now. He swayed, determined not to give up, and gripped the frame. Brought another step forward.
Focus on the logic. You’ve done this a thousand times before.
A breeze fanned his skin, an unwelcome reminder that he was partway out of the house, and his vision sparkled. The sense of panic intensified a thousandfold and, with a desperate lurch, he threw himself backward into the safety of the house.

Bent at the waist, he placed his hands on his knees and struggled to draw air. Shame and guilt washed over him. He could not do it, could not go out there, no matter how much he needed to. Was this to be the rest of his life, then? Ruled by unfounded fear and uncontrollable physical reactions? Perhaps he should go ahead and put a ball in his brain now.

Anger rose in his blood, sharp and fierce. At himself, at Sophie, at the person who’d dared to break into his home. And where was his damned staff? He stomped to the bell pull and nearly yanked it off the wall.

He was waiting at the terrace door when a slightly winded footman appeared. “You rang, my lord?”

“An intruder has gained access to the house. He ran into the gardens, most likely headed to the alley. Take this sword”—he pointed to the foil on the ground—“and make sure he has gone. Take care not to engage him in a fight, however. It’s not worth your life.” He turned to add over his shoulder, “When you’re done, see that Lady Sophia returns home safely. Then report to me in the study.”

“Very good, your lordship,” the boy said, taking up the weapon.

Quint retreated to the study. The one room in the house that he enjoyed. The one room in which he spent most of his time. And the one room just invaded by a footpad. So what had the intruder been searching for?

The study sat at one end of the library, the stacks of old, familiar tomes more precious to him than a lover. He’d read all of them, most more than once, and had discovered a passion for learning in this very space. Even though his parents had hired the best tutors, Quint had preferred to teach himself. Reading at the age of two and fluent in four languages by the time he’d turned eight, he’d studied alone for long hours.

His father had died when Quint was six. Quint had begged his mother not to send him away to school, to let him stay with her, and for a few years she had allowed it. But when Quint turned ten, she would hear no more arguments and he was shipped off to Eton.

School had been excruciating, especially the first few years. The absurdly facile lessons had frustrated him, and the other students had mocked him for the questions he asked during instruction. The boys had been merciless, both in and out of class, though Quint had tried his best to ignore them. Kept to himself. He was there to learn, after all, not make friends. And though he was physically capable of fighting back, why on earth would he lower himself to such a base display of unenlightened behavior?

Everything changed the day four older students locked him outside in his smalls. Mid-January, the weather was near freezing and his bare feet had begun turning blue when two boys from a neighboring house took pity on him. They brought him inside, warmed him up, and gave him clothes and tea. When he recovered, his two saviors marched over to Quint’s hall, busted down the door, and proceeded to beat the stuffing out of the boys responsible. It was the most fearsome and humbling sight Quint had ever witnessed in his eleven years.

And a lifelong friendship had been born.

Nick Seaton, then just a duke’s forgotten second son, and Simon Barrett, the prized future Earl of Winchester, soon taught Quint everything one could not learn in books. How to throw a proper punch. How to cheat at cards. How to sneak out without getting caught. Quint, on the other hand, helped both boys with their studies. The three of them were inseparable, and school grew tolerable.

Fate had thrown them together, and Quint remained grateful for the two men who’d saved him on more than one occasion. Now, however, he thanked providence that both of his childhood friends were in absentia, that they would not bear witness to his humiliation. He still felt like the eleven-year-old boy out in the unforgiving cold, trying to comprehend what made him so different, so
broken.
And he’d rather no one saw his failing struggle, his desperate attempts to remain sane.

Sighing, he brought his attention to the present. On the far wall stood a glass curio case, which he kept locked. Inside were various bits and mementos he’d picked up in his travels over the years. Nothing particularly valuable, but the intruder must’ve thought otherwise because he’d broken the thing open. So that was the crashing sound Quint had heard earlier.

He was inspecting the shelves for missing items when Sophie’s voice shattered the silence. “Well, I lost him in the mews,” she panted. “Dratted man was fast. He turned up Charles Street and disappeared on me.”

Quint could not look at her. Could not withstand the questions or the pity. He stared intently at a small refracting telescope from Rome. “Regardless, I thank you for your effort. John will see you home.”

Silence descended, and he sensed her waiting. What in the hell did she want him to say? He had no explanation, no answers. And he absolutely did
not
want to have a damned conversation about it. Everything inside him wanted to howl, to scream, in anger and frustration as misery boiled inside him, rising like a tide he struggled to contain. One crack and the levee would burst . . . and no telling what would happen then.

“Are you dismissing me?”

Her dismay caused more emotion to leech out, a sliver in the wall of his composure. He straightened and crossed his arms. “Hard to believe I would dare to speak rudely to such a paragon, the perfect daughter of a marquess out running amuck in men’s clothing. But dare I shall. Consider yourself dismissed, Sophie,” he snapped. “The lessons are over. The advice, the exercise, the everything . . . it is over. Leave and
do not come back
.”

“You stubborn man,” she said, her eyes narrowed to slits. “I have done nothing but try to help you. Why are you so unwilling to accept it?”

Fury and embarrassment roiled inside his gut, and he clenched his hands to keep from throwing something. “I do not need your help. I do not need anyone’s help.”

“Is that so? Because this
paragon
noticed how you fell apart at the report from a pistol. How you refused to give chase—”

“
Enough!
” he roared and snatched the first thing within reach—the crystal ink pot from his desk—and hurled it against the wall. Dark blue spattered on every surface, gruesome evidence of a bestial violence he’d never displayed before. Chest heaving, he closed his eyes against the sight. God, he was no better than an animal. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyelids. It was getting worse.
She
was making it decidedly worse.

“Quint,” she said quietly. “Let me help you. Whatever is wrong, it can be fixed.”

He shook his head. So optimistic, his Sophie. She’d been indulged and pampered her whole life, her father allowing her to do as she pleased without consequence. He was beyond redemption, however. How could he make her understand?

“This—I—cannot be fixed. The sooner you believe me, the sooner you will cease interfering in my life and leave me alone.”

“Is that what you think I’ve been doing, interfering?”

He hated the way her face fell, how her shoulders slumped. Most of all, he hated himself for the disease rotting his brain. He needed to drive her away, when what he really wanted was to pull her into his arms and never let her go. But this was how it had to be.