Page 23 of The Counterfeit Scoundrel
“It’s none of your concern, Bishop.”
“It’s every gentleman’s concern. Would you rather we finish this outside?”
The swell held up his hand, fingers splayed, releasing his hold on the lady. “No, I’ve seen the damage your punch can inflict.”
“My man will see you out,” a deep voice said, the tone brooking no argument, and Daisy glanced over to where the club owner stood, looking as though he were on the verge of committing murder. His wife skirted away from his side to tend to the lady in question and offer comfort. Standing behind him was the giant of a bruiser who usually guarded the entrance door. “Your membership is canceled. Hand over your card.”
“Look, Stanwick—” His whine actually grated Daisy’s ears.
“You’re one word away from receiving that punch Bishop was threatening. You know the rules.”
Appearing shamefaced rather than belligerent, he plucked his card from his pocket, tore it up, and let it flutter to the floor. Then he dutifully followed the bruiser out.
“Appreciate the assist, Bishop,” Lord Griffith Stanwick said, offering his hand.
Bishop shook it. “I have no tolerance for that sort of behavior.”
“Neither have I. I’ll extend your membership for a year.”
Bishop scowled. “Don’t reward me for doing what was right.”
“Fine. Enjoy your evening then.” He joined his wife in consoling the lady.
Bishop watched the threesome for a few seconds to ensure all was well before turning to Daisy. “Shall we go upstairs?”
“I don’t know if I can tolerate anything more exciting than all that. I truly thought you were going to come to fisticuffs. What did he mean about your punch?”
He seemed uncomfortable with the question. “I’ve done some boxing for sport.”
Which might account for the delicious firmness she’d touched earlier and wanted to touch again. She looked to the corner. “Does that sort of thing happen often here?”
“I’ve never seen it before. Stanwick insists gentlemen respect the ladies’ wishes. What do you wish for?”
That you weren’t a rakehell my aunt would disapprove of. That you’d stop entertaining ladies in your residence, in particular your boudoir. That you would find me as intriguing as I do you.“A peek upstairs, I suppose.”
He once more offered his arm, and she was foolish to welcome the opportunity to touch him again, to lay her hand on that steady support, and she wondered if his ladies came to him for that uncompromising regard. He provided an alcove where troubles could be set and, when picked up once again, wouldn’t feel as heavy. The time she’d spent with him in this room alone had taken her through a gamut of emotions, of memories she seldom visited, and yet her steps seemed lighter as they walked out.
He escorted her in the slow, leisurely way he had, as though time didn’t exist or clocks wouldn’t move forward without his permission. While she constantly rushed hither and yon, striving to cram as many activities into the day as possible: the chores demanded of her because of her position in his household, the answers she needed to secure for her clients, the trips to the modiste so she appeared successful when in her office or didn’t appear to be the daughter of a pauper when family obligations required her presence. Friends to visit, letters to pen, books to read. Life to live.
They ascended the red carpeted stairs to another floor of dim lights. She supposed questionable behavior flourished with the illusion of invisibility. He showed her a room where people dined, one where they gambled, one where they smoked. She was shocked to see women puffing on cheroots. She and he carried on to the other end of the hallway, where a ballroom beckoned. She could see within it that couples waltzed, holding each other scandalously close.
“Now that you’ve seen what is offered, what’s your pleasure?” he asked in a low voice, hinting at wickedness.
Facing him, she nodded toward another set of stairs across from where they stood. “What’s up there?”
He drew her away from the ballroom doorway and into one of those shadowed corners that he’d confessed to knowing so well. “Private rooms.” His gaze was direct and heated, the fingers of one hand trailing softly along her cheek. “Up there, you’ll find that dalliance your aunt warned you about.”
“It was an encouragement more than a warning.”
“Be sure it’s what you desire, that he is the one for whom you yearn. Spend a little time in the corners first.”
Somehow, without her noticing they’d moved closer together. She didn’t know if she’d eased toward him or he’d come nearer to her, but their warm breaths were mingling. His familiar bergamot with a hint of orange scent, mixed with the fragrance of scotch, suddenly smelled dark and decadent, and she was aware of heatswirling through her. Every bit of her wanted to lock itself with every inch of him. How had this happened? Was it the magic of this place? That desire couldn’t lie dormant? That every aspect of passion was awakened? She’d never wanted a man as she wanted now. It was exciting and terrifying.
He lowered his head until his lips almost brushed against her cheek, and his words were a sweet refrain in her ear. “I have something for you.”
She knew she should object, that he was going to kiss her, and yet the words to stop him knotted in her throat because she didn’t want to give them freedom. She didn’t want them uttered. She yearned for what he was offering. Yearned for it and more.
Her lids were half-shuttered when a brass key appeared within her field of vision. Her eyes flew open as she stared at it, held up by his forefinger and thumb. He’d moved back slightly, enough that she could no longer feel the caress of his breath. “What does it open?”
