The Silver Coin Page 11

  She wet her lips, felt the coat he'd enveloped her in slip from her shoulders, topple to the bench.

  Odd, but she was no longer cold.

  “If s not fair of you to ask me that,” she murmured. “Not when I'm foxed.”

  “You'd never answer me if you weren't.”

  She couldn't deny the truth of that. “You're right.” Stunned, she watched her own gloved fingers reach up, trace the hard curve of his jaw. “I wouldn't an­swer it I also wouldn't do this.” Her fingertips brushed his lips as she'd longed to do before, felt their warmth even through her glove. “Let me ask you the same question, my lord.”

  “Royce,” he corrected her, his voice even huskier than it had been before. “A nd go ahead.”

  “Royce. Do you want me?”

  Sparks guttered in his midnight eyes. “Yes, I want you. You have no idea how badly. More than I real­ized. Much more than I should.” He turned his lips into her palm. “Does that answer your question?” Mutely she nodded.

  He kissed the pulse at her wrist. “Then answer mine.”

  Breanna felt a rush of warmth that had nothing to do with the punch. “Yes, I want you,” she admitted, intentionally giving him the exact words he'd given her. “You have no idea how badly. More than I real­ized. Much more than I should.”

  She saw the triumph flash across his face an instant before he gripped her arms, drew her to him.

  “Good,” he said fiercely.

  He paused only to lift each of his hands to his mouth, yank off his gloves with his teeth, and toss them to the ground—all the while staring at her, de­vouring her with his gaze.

  Then, he crushed his mouth to hers.

  If the impact of his gaze was stunning, the impact of his kiss was fatal.

  Breanna gasped, clutching at his waistcoat as Royce's lips ravaged hers, possessing her in a series of deep, drugging kisses she felt to the depths of her soul. Their mouths fused, parted, fused again, and this time his tongue penetrated her, awakening her to an intimacy she'd never imagined. She followed his lead, opened her mouth to his, shiveringly accepting his tongue's caresses, then eagerly returning them in a way only the blissful effects of alcohol would allow.

  Royce growled deep in his chest, and his arms closed around her with staggering force, pulling her flush against him. He kissed her again, more deeply still, cupping her head in his hands and angling his mouth to allow his tongue deeper penetration.

  “Put your arms around me.” He breathed his com­mand into her lips, kissing her senseless while she complied.

  Realizing she'd been clenching at his waistcoat to keep from collapsing, Breanna unknotted her fists, glided her palms up the hard planes of his chest, feel­ing his muscles contract beneath the fine material of his shirt. His shoulders flexed beneath her fingertips, and she stroked his neck lightly with her forefinger, lingering there to feel the warmth of his skin.

  Royce must have sensed her need, or perhaps even shared it. Another harsh sound vibrated in his chest, and he dragged his mouth from hers long enough to capture her hands in his, yank off her gloves in a few quick tugs. “Now,” he muttered, flinging them aside and bringing her arms back around his neck. “Touch me. Let me feel your hands on my skin.”

  Longing welled up inside her, and she gave in to it, brushing her fingers against Royce's neck, then letting her palms discover the corded muscles and smooth flesh.

  A jolt of reaction shot through him, and his eyes darkened to near black. “God,” he rasped, stunned disbelief registering on his face. “My God.” He bent to take her mouth again, his arms contracting like bow strings, bringing her up and into him. The thin silk of Breanna's gown did nothing to hide the hardening contours of his body, but rather than freezing with horror and shame, she felt herself melt, soften as if to fit more snugly against him.

  The world was spinning out of control, and Breanna never wanted it to stop. She explored his throat, slipped her fingers beneath his cravat to feel the heat of his flesh, then glided them through his hair, savored the silky texture. Her own hair had come undone, she real­ized absently, sighing with pleasure as Royce's hands captured the toppling auburn waves, savored their tex­ture before tangling in them, lifting them away so he could stroke the nape of her neck, the exposed skin of her back and shoulders. God, these sensations were too exciting to withstand—yet unthinkable to abandon.

  She pressed closer.

  “Breanna.”

  Something inside him seemed to snap. He cupped her bottom, crushed her lower body to his as he rav­aged her mouth, his tongue rubbing against hers until she thought she would die. Her breasts were tingling with sensation, her entire body heavy with longing, liquid heat pulsing through her with each plunge of his tongue, each nudge of his hips.

  Almost violently, Royce tore himself away, biting off a curse as he lowered her feet to the ground, stead­ied her against the bench—an arm's length away.

  Gasping in air, they stared at each other.

  “Are you all right?” Royce demanded, his fingers digging into her arms.

  Reflexively, Breanna nodded, inclining her head in dazed non-comprehension. She was still awash with sensation, her mind and body reeling with discovery, her mouth clamoring for his.

  “Royce?” She said his name in question, in bewil­derment. When he didn't answer, she blinked to clear her head, to make out the expression on his face.

  His handsome features were taut, strained, a mus­cle working furiously at his jaw. His midnight eyes were blazing with sparks, and his forehead was dot­ted with sweat, despite the evening's chill. His teeth were clenched, his breath coming in hard rasps, send­ing erratic puffs of vapor into the night sky. He looked livid—no, not livid, tormented, as if he we r e fighting some harsh internal battle.

  An internal battle over her.

  Another long minute passed, and the cold began sinking back into Breanna's bones, causing her teeth to chatter.

  Royce swore again, snapped into action. He bent, scooped his coat off the bench and wrapped it around her, rubbing her arms to warm them. “I'm sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I don't know what came over me. I know that's no excuse, but it's the only one I've got.” His hands glided up to cup her face, and he inspected her closely, frowning as he surveyed her disheveled tresses. “How do we fix your hair?”

  Automatically, Breanna's hands came up, discover­ing the extent of the damage. “I can manage.” At his dubious expression, she forced a weak smile. “I've had practice.”

  That made his eyes narrow. “Have you now?”

  She realized instantly how he'd perceived her re­mark. “Not that kind of practice.” She swallowed. “My father insisted on my looking immaculate at all times. That wasn't easy to manage, especially when I was a child. I learned how to readjust my hair in record time. Watch.” She stepped back, smoothing loose waves of hair back up, twisting and braiding them until they'd reformed their original sleek coronet.

  “I'm impressed.” Royce was studying her from be­neath hooded lids.

  “Now all I need are these.” Breanna stooped, picked up her gloves, and gracefully tugged them on. “There. As good as new.”

  “Just like before,” he said in an odd tone.

  “No,” she replied quietly, meeting his probing stare. “Not just like before.” Silence.

  Breanna gazed up at him, taking in the warring emotions crossing his face as he struggled with whatever internal demons were plaguing him. She wouldn't ask him what they were—that wasn't her right. She, better than anyone, knew the need to keep one's thoughts, one's conflicts, even one's memories private. Memories like the ones they'd just made. Dimly, she wondered why she didn't feel the shame she knew she should. She had, after all, behaved like a total wanton. Yet she felt more alive, more exhilarat­ed, than she'd ever felt in her life. Was that because the full extent of what she'd done hadn't had time to sink in yet, or was it because what she'd done had felt so incredibly right? So magnificently, incredibly right. “Stop looking a
t me like that,” Royce commanded roughly. “Or you'll be back in my arms before you've caught your breath.”

  “What makes you think I don't want that?” She heard him inhale sharply.

  “Breanna, you're playing with fire.” A weighted pause. “We both are.”

  “Fire.” Her gaze remained steady on his. “Yes, that's what it felt like.”

  “I don't want you to get burned.”

  “All right,” she whispered. “Just singed then.”

  “Damn.” He gripped her waist, pulled her closer and took her mouth in one long, blazing kiss. “You should be slapping me,” he muttered, his thumbs just grazing the underside of her breasts. “Pulling away, calling me a bastard, and slapping me.”

  “Is that what I should be doing?” She shivered, to­tally focused on the tantalizing motion of his fingertips.

  “Yes.” The kiss deepened, his tongue moving slowly, seductively against hers. “You should.” His thumbs shifted, brushed her hardened nipples once, then stroked them in slow, teasing circles.

  “Oh, God.” Breanna's knees were shaking, pin­points of almost unendurable sensation shooting from her breasts to her loins. She shrugged Royce's coat off her shoulders, let it drop, then stepped closer, wrapped her arms around his neck.

  Royce shuddered, his entire body going rigid as he shaped and caressed her breasts. Each caress grew hotter, more urgent, more intimate.

  His trembling hands reached for the top of her bodice.

  “Breanna.” He lifted his head slightly, his eyes molten with desire. “If I touch you, I'll take you. Right here. Right now. On this bench. With the entire ton carousing just inside those walls.” His hands made the return journey to her waist. “I've got to stop.”

  “I know.” Her eyes slid shut, a shivering sigh es­caping her. “I know.”

  Royce caught her chin between his fingers, and her lashes lifted to see him studying her face for a long, searching moment “Are you going to remember this later?” he demanded. “When the Regent's punch has worn off?”

  A soft smile touched Breanna's lips. “I'll remember it,” she assured him. “And the punch wore off long

  11

  Stacie glanced over at the French doors for the tenth t i me i n the last half hour, nearly sagging with relief when she saw her cousin stroll in on L ord Royce's arm.

  F i nally. Breanna was back. Back and safe.

  Thank God. No one had hurt her.

  Then again, her protector had been by her side.

  Besieged by a rush of curiosity, Stacie met Brean­na's eyes, spied a definite sparkle that hadn't been there before, and had to fight the urge to rush over and ask what had happened during that stroll in the glittering winter moonlight.

  Winter. And Breanna had stayed outside for thirty minutes without her mantle.

  Interesting. She didn't look at all cold.

  “Stacie?” Damen's voice was tender, but his grip, tightening ever so fractionally about her waist, was telling her in no uncertain terms that she'd better stay put.

  Damn, the man knew her so well.

  “Yes?” She gave him a sweet, innocent look, turn­ing her attention back to the small group surrounding them—a group that had, in the short minutes while her mind had wandered, expanded from Lord and Lady Dutton and the Earl and Countess of Geldrick to include the Viscount Crompton and Lord Arthur Landow.

  “The viscount was just commenting on how radiant you look,” Damen prompted.

  Anastasia felt a twinge of guilt when she saw the concern furrowing Lord Crompton's brow—and Lord Landow's, for that matter. Like Dutton and Geldrick, both these men had strong monetary ties to the House of Lockewood and both were uneasy about offending Damen. True, they'd rejected her re­quest for financial backing last summer—as had every other businessman she'd approached. Still, that did nothing to shed doubt on their integrity, only on their open-mindedness. Like all Damen's clients, these were honorable men—the viscount a retired military general who'd served in the Napoleonic Wars, and Lord Landow a wealthy manufacturer whose products were sold both here and abroad.

  By nature, Stacie wasn't cruel. Needling these men for missing out on a superb business opportunity was one thing. Forcing«them to humble themselves, as they had been doing since the party began, was quite another. Enough was enough. The last thing she wanted was to add insult to injury by making Lord Crompton think he was being snubbed.

  “Forgive me, my lord,” she told him, relieved to see the intense consternation on his face ease a bit. “I appreciate your gracious compliment.” Her mind raced, and she quickly came up with the ideal explanation for her rudeness and for Damen's constant presence at her side—a reason they'd like far better than their cur­rent belief: namely, that he was looming over them to retaliate, to make them squirm for offending his wife.

  Sometimes the truth came in handy. Now was one of those times.

  She shot Lord Crompton a grateful look. “Your kind words couldn't have come at a better time—especially when I know I look anything but radiant. I haven't slept in weeks, nor have I kept down a meal. That's actually why I missed hearing what you said. I was feeling light-headed.”

  Crompton now looked concerned. “Have you seen a physician?”

  “Every day on the ship home,” she replied with a smile. “Much to his dismay.” She inclined her head, turned her smile up at Damen, whose twinkle told her he knew exactly what she was doing—and that he approved. “My illness is for the most wonderful of reasons. Damen and I are expecting a child.”

  “That's splendid.” The viscount relaxed, raised his glass. “Congratulations to you both.”

  “Yes, congratulations,” Landow echoed, as pleased by the congeniality of her tone as he was by her news. “What a delightful announcement.” His good wishes—and his gaze—were clearly directed at Damen

  “I agree,” Damen responded, drawing Stacie closer to his side. “I'm elated.”

  “He's also exceedingly anxious and protective,” Stacie confided, tossing a you-understand glance at Lady Geldrick, in the hopes of eliciting the countess's support. It was well know n that she and the earl were very much in love, and that she had gifted her husband with their second son just five months ago.

  “That poor doctor couldn't wait to see the last of us,” Stacie added, still speaking to Lady Geldrick. “Damen paid him three visits a day to verify that the symptoms I was experiencing were normal. And, as you can see, he refuses to budge from my side.”

  “Well, of course he does.” It was Lord Geldrick who chimed in first, nodding vigorously and giving Damen a look of genuine sympathy. “It's your first child. I don't blame you a bit for your concern, Sheldrake.”

  “You shouldn't,” his wife teased, her eyes twin­kling. “You acted the same way when I was with child—especially the first time.” She leaned forward, touched Stacie's arm. “Best wishes to you both. And don't worry about feeling ill. The sensation will pass in a few months. After that, you'll be hungry enough to eat three banquets a day.”

  “I'm relieved to hear that.” As she said it, Stacie re­alized it was true. She also realized how good it felt to speak with another woman about her condition-something she hadn't yet done. In fact, she'd been so worried over the killer stalking her and Breanna that she hadn't stopped to give much thought to the more normal concerns surrounding pregnancy.

  As if on cue, a wave of light-headedness accosted her, made her teeter on her feet.

  “Stacie?” Damen felt the motion, whipped about to face her. “What's wrong?” Lines of worry tightened his face. “You're white as a sheet.”

  “I'm fine—really.” She blinked to clear her head. “Just a bit dizzy.”

  “We're sitting down.” He was already guiding her away from the group. “If you'll all excuse us.”

  “Certainly,” Lord Crompton said, backing away to let them pass. “Tend to your wife, Sheldrake.”

  Damen intended to do just that. He drew Stacie over to an airy corner of the roo
m, then eased her into a chair. Turning toward the hallway, he signaled Wells with his eyes.

  The butler was beside them in an instant.

  “Miss Stacie? Are you ill?” he demanded.

  “No, Wells, just dizzy.” Stacie wished the room would right itself.

  “You've eaten almost as little as Miss Breanna did today,” Wells admonished with a frown. “And you're eating for two. I'll bring you a plate of food.”

  “Good idea,” Damen answered for her. “And some­thing cool to drink. Not laden with spirits.”

  “Of course not, my lord.” Wells sniffed. “I wouldn't think of it.”

  “Of course you wouldn't. Forgive me, Wells.” Damen raked a hand through his hair. “I guess I'm more unnerved than I realized.”

  “I understand. No apology is necessary.”

  “Would you both stop staring at me as if I'm on the verge of death?” Stacie demanded, looking from one man to the other. “The guests will start thinking I have some rare disease.”

  “I'll be very discreet,” Wells assured her. He glanced about the room, took in the merrymaking. “Believe me, no one has even noticed us. They haven't any idea what we're talking about.”

  Even as he spoke, Lady Dutton was passing the news of Stacie's pregnancy on to the Marchioness of Radebrook.

  By the time Wells arrived back from the refreshment table, there wasn't a guest in the room who didn't know that the Marquess and Marchioness of Shel­drake's first child was on its way.

  “I'm so glad we're being discreet,” Stacie said in amusement, after the twelfth person had congratulated her. “Wells, you should know by now there's no keeping a secret in the ton.” “Maybe it's better this way,” Damen muttered purposefully to his wife, simultaneously smiling his thanks at the retreating Duke of Maywood, who'd come over to offer his best wishes. “At least the guests re keeping you so busy you can't dash off to interrogate Breanna. That wa s where you were headed when you nearly collapsed at my feet, wasn't it?”

  “Yes.” Anastasia knew better than to insult her husband by lying. “Or rather, I was considering in ching my way over to Breanna.” Her curious gaze returned to where her cousin was still chatting with Royce. Breanna was obviously unaware that Stacie was feeling light-headed, or that the room was abuzz with news of her near-swoon. In fact, Breanna was unaware that anything out of the ordinary had taken place. Odd, considering how attuned to each other she and Stacie were. It would take a major distraction to preoccupy Breanna to the point where she wouldn't sense that an event involving Stacie had taken place. Evidently, Royce Chadwick was such a distraction. “Damen, surely you noticed—” “I noticed.” Damen followed his wife's stare. “But I think you're reading' far too much into it. Royce is keeping an eye on Breanna—a practical idea under he circumstances. He knows I'm attached to your side for the night. You need no further protection. Breanna, on the other hand, is alone. So, he's serving as her sentry.”