Page 42 of Duke of Treason (Rogues from War 3)

“Yes!” This came breathless and so silky.

He came closer. “Not even on an angled mattress?” His hoarseness spoke volumes, he lamented.

Air sucked and caught between those catastrophic lips. “If you have nothing important to say, I will take my-“

Somehow, he managed to corner her against the wall. Her head raised to meet him, hat falling. She was so delightfully small! The exact size for him. He wasted no time in caging her with his hands.

“What will you take, Annabel?” He murmured, losing control in meteoric speed. “Me? In your mouth, hopefully?”

Her head bent to the wall, lashes falling, as if she was melting.

“Devil take me, Annabel!” He rasped. “But you almost got the best of me in the dungeon.” About to shame himself, he struggled to cool down a little. Without success.

Murky gaze roving over her, all he wanted was her legs around his waist and him pounding in her blindly. The floral scent and woman emanating from her did not help his case. In the least.

“Stop it, Romulus.” But the throaty plead sounded exactly the opposite of it.

“You will have to be more convincing, Annabel.” He should throw her on his shoulder and take her upstairs.

As she opened her magnificent eyes anew, she grilled him. “We are in different sides.”

Ragged breathing, he tried not to capture her mouth. “Politics does not go to bed.” He murmured in her ear.

She inhaled deeply. “I think it does.” Pushing him, she broke the spell, glare incinerating him. “If you will excuse me.”

Straight back, chin up, she pulled the door resolutely and disappeared into the street. Together with his peace of mind.

* * *

Annabel climbed the stairs to her drawing room flustered, hot, confused. And frustrated. The ruse with the unnerving man made her almost forget all her good intentions. The ball of fire he deflagrated in her insides almost too intense to resist.

She should not have ridden there personally, she concluded. Branson, the coachman, could have performed the task easily. Something pulled her to the house, and she followed it like the silly ninny that she was. Now she scorched with his very effective provocation mixed with the near fall that mortified her. One more second, and she would have given in. It took a cycloptic will power to pull him away and rush from his luxurious town house.

The truth of it was she should avoid meeting him. Completely. Or she would make a fool of herself again and again. There could be no point in mulling over the prudence of having started this whole thing. It had been done, full stop. It would be stupid to continue it, she knew. She must not connect herself to a criminal, one that stood on the very verge of exposure. With her own help.

What if she travelled to visit friends in the country? A couple of weeks and this would be over, for sure. No. She needed peace and silence before she received another assignment. If she would get them in town remained to be seen. The most important thing, she must stay away from him. He dominated the best part of her conscious thoughts, her nightly cravings and the jumbled, troublesome pieces that populated her chest, to which she wished to give no name.

A knock on the door and Stevenson, her butler, came in with a letter on a silver tray. The Marchioness of Darby, returned to town, inviting her to a soiree with her group of scientists, philosophers and artists. To discuss Schelling, the recent German philosopher she had been reading in the castle.

Oh, fabulous! Another thing to remind her of those agonisingly sizzling days in Blackthorne!

She would love to see his aunt again and to take part in her illustrated group. With hopes she would not meet the blackguard, she sent a note accepting it.

* * *

The marchioness’s town house witnessed one of the first noble houses that London saw with the increasing urbanisation of the last decades. More and more noble families built town houses these days as city life became the norm among them. So, Annabel was enchanted with the witnesses of past architecture she saw all around the construction, in and out.

As the butler led her to the drawing room, Lady Derby came to greet her with warm regard.

“My dear!” She took Annabel’s hands. “What a delight to have you here.”

Since the soiree gathered men and women intellectuals, it happened in the evening. Thus, wine flowed from footmen’s trays.

She accepted a glass and took a seat, relieved that the lady’s unnerving nephew was nowhere to be seen. About a dozen people sat in a circle of settees, disposed to favour discussion. After the due introductions, the group invested time in philosophical pursuits.

The evening elapsed in smart, pleasant conversation and she enjoyed a wonderful time. It drew to an end and the lady’s guests started to depart.

In preparation to take her leave, she turned to the door and her heart drummed, threatening to leap from her ribs. The very villain leaned on the door jamb. Boiling heat bathed her insides. He had been there the whole time, darn him!

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