The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae by Stephanie Laurens
“Well. Now what?” Beneath her hat, her cheeks were aglow, her eyes bright.
Strolling on, he considered. She hadn’t made any stupid mistakes. And while he sensed she was aware of his protective streak, of the tension that gripped him whenever she did anything potentially dangerous, she hadn’t played the tease but instead had toed any line he’d drawn, accepting his strictures, at least as long as they’d appeared reasonable to her.
And despite that moment of flaring desire in the hackney, she hadn’t retaliated. He’d expected her to, but she’d made no move to pay him back. Perhaps because she, too, was susceptible to that unsettling leap of pulse, that disconcerting distraction; she couldn’t distract him without distracting herself. She hadn’t tried but had instead remained focused on learning how to pass as a youth.
He was still feeling his way with her, learning how to deal with her. Dealing with another as an almost-equal wasn’t something he’d had to do often, much less on a daily basis. All things considered, he suspected that this was a moment to give a little.
Glancing at her, he murmured, “As your disguise has improved so much, is there anywhere you’d like to go that you could only go if disguised as a youth?”
Beneath the brim of her hat, he caught a glimpse of shining eyes. “Oh, yes—indeed there is.”
The pit at the Theatre Royal late that afternoon was a seething, shifting mass of men and youths, with the occasional prostitute thrown in for good measure. Cheers erupted on all sides when the heroine or hero trod the stage; when the villain appeared, boos and hisses abounded.
Dominic stood more or less in the middle of the good-natured, jostling throng gathered to watch the late matinee performance. Angelica, hat crammed low over her brow, stood directly before him, shielded from the worst of the press, but clearly visible from three sides.
The only positive in their position was that all eyes were fixed on the stage. Except for his. He continually scanned the crowd, alert for any sign that someone had noted the unusually fine skin of the youth in front of him, or that said “youth’s” eyes were uncommonly fine, with long curling lashes, and a brightness to them that was inherently . . . not just effeminate but feminine. Or that the youth’s lips left the question of gender beyond doubt.
Thus far, the lure of the stage had won out.
He had no idea what the play was about. The risk of discovery, and the likely result if anyone did realize that a lady in disguise stood in their midst, was more than enough to fill his mind. To have every instinct on high alert, and turn every muscle to steel.
His mind wasn’t so much in thinking mode as reacting mode. Ready to react to the danger when it flared. And he couldn’t even lay the blame for his state at her boot-shod feet.
He’d brought this on himself. Jaw set, he silently swore he would never again fall into that trap. Next time he would inquire as to her wishes without making any, even implied, open agreement. Her desire to visit the pit at Drury Lane had stunned him, but he’d gone too far to retract; he’d already complimented her on her much improved disguise.
So here he was, stiff as a post in every way, with every nerve alert and tension literally thrumming through him.
The play must have reached some critical point; engrossed, the crowd surged forward, pressing closer to the stage. He stood like a rock and the crowd parted on either side, leaving Angelica protected from the jostling flow, but as the crowd before her thickened, it pushed her back. She edged back, and back, then, on a smothered gasp, she was shoved back—and plastered against him.
He tried to step back, but there were multiple shoulders locked behind him, and on either side; courtesy of the surge of humanity, he was trapped, too.
Angelica caught her breath and tried to ease away from the male body scorching her back, but the crowd before them grew even more dense, pressing her even more firmly against him. She tried to edge sideways—
“Don’t. Move.”
The words, gritted out through clenched teeth, froze her; his voice had dropped to such a gravelly growl that she’d only just made them out.
Drawing in a tight breath, she stayed where she was and, with outward calm, continued to stare toward the stage while her senses rioted.
His body was rock-hard. All of it. When he’d manhandled her during her kidnap, she’d noticed the hardness of his chest, the solidity of his shoulders, but . . . this was hardness of quite a different stripe.
This was arousal. His thighs were granite pillars on either side of hers, his erection a solid ridge against her lower back. She was pressed against him from shoulders to knees, which presumably explained why he didn’t want her shifting; as she understood things, his present condition might be bordering on the painful, and her sliding against him would only make matters worse.
So she stayed where she was, only to discover that being plastered against him affected her, too. He felt scaldingly hot, and that heat transferred to her. She grew increasingly warm, as if subtle flames were spreading beneath her skin. And that skin somehow grew more sensitive, until any little shift of her clothing registered as a sensual abrasion. As for her breasts, they swelled beneath the band she’d used to restrain them . . . until she was in discomfort, if not pain, too.
Until the question of how long she could bear it and not move became a very real concern . . .
In unison, the crowd let out a long sigh, then a second later, erupted with whoops and cheers, followed by rowdy applause.
Finally, after another interminable few minutes, the curtain swished closed, and the play was at an end.
“Stay where you are.”
Another order from above, but in the next instant the big doors at both sides of the pit opened and the crowd started to stream away to either side.
The instant the pressure of bodies eased, Dominic stepped back and ended the torture.
As the departing crowd thinned, he tweaked Angelica’s sleeve. Head down, she fell into step alongside him; together they joined the rear of the departing horde.
They stepped outside into deepening dusk. He glanced at her face, despite the fading light saw the bloom of a blush still high in her cheeks, washing down the side of her throat . . . she’d been as affected as he.
Hauling his mind from dwelling on that, he scanned their surroundings, then halted.
She looked around as if enthralled by the hackneys and the noise and confusion. “Well! That was an adventure.”
He cast her a look, waited until she glanced up and met it. “The next time I take you to the theater, we’ll be getting a private box.”
He held her gaze for an instant, then looked around, forcing his mind to deal with the moment, to gauge their chances of grabbing a hackney.
“Come on.” He stepped out along the pavement heading toward Covent Garden; there would be plenty of hackneys there. “The others will be wondering where we’ve got to.”
He was wondering the same thing.
A hackney proved hard to come by, but eventually they returned to the mews in Bury Street. Dominic held open the gate in the garden wall, then followed Angelica up the path to the house.
It was past eight o’clock when they entered the servants’ hall. Brenda and Mulley were sitting at the table; both rose as Dominic and Angelica appeared.
“There you be.” Brenda smiled, then her expression grew concerned. “Have you eaten, miss? My lord?”
Dominic shook his head. “We ended at the theater.” Brenda and Mulley would be up at dawn; he noticed the glance Angelica threw him, hoped he read it correctly. “Just a light supper will do.”
“Indeed, yes.” Angelica smiled at Brenda. “We had game pie for lunch, so whatever you can put together quickly will do.”
“I’ll set the table in the dining parlor, shall I?” Mulley reached for a tray.
Angelica hesitated for only a second. “Yes, that might
Having the length of the dining table between her and Dominic struck her as a very wise move. Ever since those fraught moments in the pit—moments she couldn’t get out of her head—he’d been watching her . . . she was starting to feel like a hunted deer.
He was a highlander; she was quite sure he hunted deer.
Despite her very real desire to learn more about that side of their pending relationship, the side she was perfectly certain was on his mind, she was heart-thumpingly sure that she wasn’t up to dealing with more revelations on that subject tonight. She had no idea why she was so skitteringly nervous; she only knew she was. For once—possibly for the first time in her life—all her instincts were urging caution and retreat.
She followed Mulley to the breakfast parlor they’d been using as a dining room. Every step of the way she was intensely aware of Dominic prowling behind her. Mulley set her place and moved up the table. She walked to her chair and felt Dominic draw near; he was so damned huge, all hard muscle, that he literally radiated heat enough for her sensitized nerves to detect.
He halted. She felt his presence like a warm wash down her back.
Moving slowly—as her senses reminded her he had on the terrace when he’d almost been ready to pounce—he drew out her chair.
She sat, let him settle her.
Waited until he walked, long-legged stride fluid and slow, to the other end of the table before she exhaled.
She told herself her reaction was nonsensical, but, after sitting himself, he looked down the table and met her gaze . . . she looked into his eyes, sharply intent gray-on-green, and knew she hadn’t misread the direction of his thoughts.
He and she were destined, at some point, to be man and wife, after all.
Brenda hurried in with a soup tureen. Mulley followed with two plates made up with bread, sliced roast beef, and portions of an egg, bacon, leek, and cheese flan.
“Lovely—thank you.” Angelica found a smile for Brenda as the maid ladled a rich broth into her soup bowl. “This will be more than enough.”
“Aye, well, we’ve only got breakfast and lunch tomorrow, and then we’ll be gone, so I want to use up all that we have.”
After serving Dominic, Brenda withdrew, following Mulley out and back to the kitchen . . . leaving Angelica alone with her prospective husband.
She kept her eyes on her soup as she supped, but she could feel his gaze. Could feel the silence thicken—could all but sense their mutual awareness reaching over the table, colliding, twining, then his reached for her while hers reached for him—
“I enjoyed today. I have to thank you for going with me. You were right—it wouldn’t have been the same with Thomas. The fish market was such an experience—not one I have any ambition to repeat, but still not one I would have liked to have missed. The crowds, the smells—let alone all the noise. Why . . .”
Dominic ate, watched, and listened. Whenever she paused—only ever for a second—as if expecting some comment from him, he hmmed, or grunted, and, apparently satisfied, she rolled on with her catalog of the day’s highlights.
He wondered if she knew she was babbling.
And if she knew how revealing that was.
He seriously doubted she was a female who often babbled, but the intensity of the desire that—courtesy of their adventure at the theater—was now all but crackling between them had reduced her to it.
Despite knowing that that sensual storm wasn’t emanating from him alone, her reaction to it gave him pause.
He recognized her response—it was very like that of a half-broken filly shying at the saddle. She wanted to step forward and learn what it was like, but simultaneously was leery over what she might lose, of what accepting might mean for her.
In that, she was wise. Becoming his wife in fact would change her life irreversibly and irrevocably.
And while that result would be the same regardless of when they consummated their now-fated union, it was, he suspected, her very intelligence—a characteristic for which he had to give thanks—that had her stepping back. Wanting to look before she leaped. Wanting to think things through, first.
He couldn’t blame her for that.
Although he wanted nothing more than to stand, walk down the table, haul her up out of her chair, and kiss her until she melted against him, until she didn’t just allow but welcomed him—nay, begged him to sink his throbbing shaft deep into the hot haven of her body—he reined the near-brutal impulse back.
Only to discover how much effort that took. Normally his appetites, although as large as he was, nevertheless remained entirely under his control. Tonight, with her, after the too-tantalizing day, that control was . . . tenuous. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted any other, perhaps because she’d agreed to be his wife.
Regardless . . .
Lifting his gaze from his empty plate, he looked down the table.
She’d finished her meal, laid her cutlery down. Hands in her lap, she was staring at a spot midway down the table while her tongue ran on. “And”—she paused to draw a tight breath, which only succeeded in focusing his attention on her severely bound breasts, a situation his ravenously sexual self wanted to rectify now—“of course, I’ve always wanted to visit the pit at the Theatre Royal.”
The thready neediness in her voice, the way she shifted in her seat . . . his hunter’s instinct to seize—seize now—bucked hard against his control.
“Stop.” His voice was deep, raw with suppressed passion, but he couldn’t do anything about that.
Startled, she looked up, met his eyes.
He held her gaze, then, as evenly as he could, stated, “It’s late. I suggest you retire. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”
Fixed on his face, on what she could no doubt sense, if not see, her eyes had widened. She hesitated for only a heartbeat, then nodded. “Yes. Of course. You’re right.” Gripping the table, she edged her chair back. “I’ll . . . ah, go up.”
She rose without taking her eyes from him. Then she turned and walked to the door. She opened it, paused, then, without glancing back, said, “Good night.”
And left.
He watched the door close behind her. “Good night?” She wouldn’t have understood the word he said next. He waited until he heard her footsteps climb the stairs, forced himself to remain seated until he heard the door of the countess’s sitting room close.
Only then did he rise. Grim-faced, he crossed to the sideboard, hunted inside, and found a bottle of whisky and a glass. Bringing both back to the table, he flung himself into his chair, opened the bottle, and poured himself a dram. Or two.
Restoppering the bottle, he reached for the glass, drank, and felt the smoky burn slide down his throat. On a sigh, he leaned back.
And considered his options.
He could have her anytime he wished—tonight if he so desired. Her interest in him, in having him bed her, was all but palpable; if he pushed, she would yield.
But all things considered and appropriately weighed, was that the best way forward, for him, with her?
Or was waiting for her to come to him—for her to agree to marry him, make the first move, and invite his possession—a preferable path?
He sipped, debated; it didn’t take much consideration to conclude that, for him, with her, the latter was the wiser choice.
Given her character, which he was increasingly aware was disturbingly similar to his own, then him going to her—essentially taking the decision out of her hands—would leave that decision undeclared.
She was in many ways his equal; he had to keep that in mind. Defining their future joint life, and how they were to live and interact with each other, was indeed going to be a complex negotiation; the last thing he needed was to leave her with the advantage of not having openly declared her wishes vis-à-vis the physical side of their union.
So now, tonight, would be a strategic blunder.
And possibly not only on that front.
Reclaiming the goblet was too important for him to allow himself to be distracted, and while he might not want to admit it, even to himself, although he’d never been distracted by any bed-partner before, she was different.
And not only because she would be his wife.
“And that,” he said, reaching for the bottle, “is a very troubling fact.”
Resupplied with whisky, he sipped, thought.
Finally, he drained his glass, set it on the table, pushed back his chair and rose.
She’d left him when he’d told her to, and in that she’d been wise.
And in doing so she’d given him the opportunity to exercise some wisdom of his own.
Until they won back the goblet and he had it once more in his hands, he and she would simply have to live with the itch that had flared and now afflicted them.
And even after that, he would play safe and wait for her to give in and openly declare that she wanted him in her bed.
Much safer on all counts.
Leaving the parlor, he climbed the stairs, passed the door to her room, and headed for his own, although he still couldn’t see even the remotest prospect of him having anything resembling a good night.
Chapter Eight
They reached the Bull and Mouth Inn off Aldersgate as dusk was tinting the sky. The yard was a-bustle with people rushing everywhere, some leaving, others arriving, all lugging bags and portmanteau. Horses and coaches stood at points around the roughly square yard, some disgorging passengers and luggage, others being loaded up. The inn itself surrounded the yard on three sides, a four-story structure with open galleries on the upper floors overlooking the chaos and cacophony of the yard.
Angelica came to an abrupt halt just inside the open end of the yard. Her bag in one hand, eyes wide, she looked this way, then that, trying to take everything in; the Bull and Mouth was another noisy and colorful pocket of London she’d never seen or even known existed.