Midnight's Wild Passion Read online

  The lady put up stout defenses. He didn’t delude himself that piercing her thorny boundaries would be quick work. But he had an ally within the gate—the fact that she, however unwillingly, found him fascinating.

  After years of easy conquests, wearing down Miss Smith’s resistance proved a delightful game. A game whose outcome wasn’t in doubt.

  His jaded heart kicked against his ribs with unjaded excitement as he pictured her tumbling into his hands like a ripe apple. She’d taste just as sweet, with that tart edge he’d come to appreciate. He’d become bored with compliant women. His palate fancied something more complex.

  Even better, her seduction would forward his revenge. Once he’d neutralized Miss Smith, he’d have open access to Cassandra.

  How odd that he, who had silenced his conscience years ago, felt uncomfortable at the idea of blackmailing the dragon. Not that ethical qualms would stop him. He was a ruthless bastard and Miss Smith would rue the moment she entered his orbit.

  He smothered a derisive laugh. Most men would consider him an idiot for preferring the subtle, almost invisible charms of the older woman to the younger’s prettiness. But with every moment he spent in her company, he became more certain the enigmatic Miss Smith offered the discerning lover a rich banquet. Under that forbidding exterior, he’d caught hints of a wild, unforgettable beauty. He knew to his boots there was passion in Antonia Smith.

  In comparison, tupping Cassandra Demarest would be like drowning in meringue.

  Without making a conscious decision about his destination, he felt no real surprise when he stood outside the Demarests’ Curzon Street residence. After the musicale, a crowd had formed for carriages, so neither Miss Demarest nor her companion would be home yet. A glow shone through the fanlight above the front door but the other windows were dark.

  Clinging to shadows, he slunk around to the mews. Lights burned in the stables but nobody emerged to challenge him. When he tested the gate, he discovered it unlocked. Such carelessness in the city asked for trouble.

  Trouble arrived in the person of the Marquess of Ranelaw.

  Soundlessly he slipped into the garden and immediately imagined himself in the countryside. The scent of flowers and freshly turned earth overcame the pervasive London stink of coal dust and dank river. Even his debauched soul evinced a trace of spring’s innocence.

  He studied the rear of the house. He had a spy inside, one of the footmen, who had supplied him with a floor plan. The arrangement was so standard, he could have guessed Miss Demarest’s room. What had surprised him was that Miss Smith occupied a chamber on the same floor as the family. Most companions were consigned rooms much closer to the servants’ quarters.

  Light streamed from Miss Demarest’s window in the corner bedroom overlooking the garden. At the other end of the house, Miss Smith’s darkened window opened onto a flowering cherry tree.

  Ranelaw’s whim solidified into determination. Now presented the perfect opportunity to woo the Demarest chit with a billet-doux on her pillow. But all night his thoughts had turned on the beguiling Miss Smith, not her simpering charge.

  Grabbing a low branch on the cherry tree, he swung himself up.

  Chapter Four

  With a weary sigh, Antonia closed her bedroom door behind her. She loved Cassandra dearly but the girl was so overexcited by her social success that she invariably came home bubbling with an endless desire to relive the night’s adventures. Tonight it had taken Antonia over an hour to settle her, and she suspected her cousin still lay awake counting the evening’s triumphs.

  Antonia regretted that, among those triumphs, Cassie included her flirtation with the Marquess of Ranelaw. After that disturbing encounter on the terrace, Ranelaw had shown Cassie special favor. It was as if Antonia’s warning stirred a childish urge to flout her. Except that the marquess was disturbingly adult and his purposes contained no childish innocence. And he’d done it all in a manner that left Antonia helpless to reprimand either him or Cassie.

  He was too damned clever for his own good, was the Marquess of Ranelaw. She wished him a speedy journey to Hades. Surely among the thousands of women he’d debauched, one must possess a jealous husband with a working set of pistols.

  She quashed an unwelcome twinge of regret when she pictured all that glorious masculinity lying cold and still. Ranelaw was handsome but he was wicked. He meant trouble to Cassie.

  And to her.

  “What a ferocious scowl, my dear Miss Smith. Should I be nervous?”

  She stiffened in disbelieving horror. With a shaking hand, she raised her candle to reveal what lay beyond the flickering firelight.

  Surely not even Lord Ranelaw would break into her room. He couldn’t be so bold.

  He could indeed.

  He slouched on the brocade window seat, the casement open behind him to the old cherry tree. The breeze shifted the parted curtains, filled the room with a faintly almond scent, ruffled his thick gold hair. He looked more delicious than a plate of roast beef to a starving man.

  “Get out,” she said flatly without shifting. Shock swamped anger.

  He laughed softly, that low, musical laugh that never failed to tighten her skin with awareness. “Here I thought you’d fall victim to the vapors. Or a fit of hysterics.”

  “I never faint,” she said, still in that hard voice.

  Her brain worked feverishly at how to get rid of him. Dear God, the consequences of anyone finding him were unthinkable. As surprise ebbed, a tide of fear surged. Cassie and her father had sheltered her, allowed her to build a life that, for all its frustrations, meant she was fed and housed. If they thought she’d resorted to her bad old ways, she’d be out on her ear.

  Ranelaw rose with a languorous grace that, even through her terror, made her blood pound hard and hot. Casually he brushed white petals from his broad shoulders. He still wore his elegant clothing from the musicale. For a rake, he had austere taste. His coats were always perfectly cut to his impressive physique and his waistcoats were masterpieces of simplicity.

  Sweet heaven, he was temptation personified, for all the evil she knew of him. In comparison to Lord Ranelaw, handsome Johnny Benton, who had brought about her ruin, was a complete fright. Ranelaw made her ache to fling aside dull morality and taste again the heady wine of passion.

  But the wine of passion was deadly poison.

  “I should have known you’d be too stalwart to scream at the sight of a man in your bedchamber. Although I’m sure you’re shocked to the soles of your sensible shoes, Miss Smith.”

  If she hadn’t been so afraid of the consequences of his presence, she’d laugh. How ironic that this disreputable Adonis remained convinced he addressed an untouched virgin.

  “What do you want?” Her room was isolated so she had no need to whisper.

  “Would you believe me if I said you?”

  This time she did laugh, a huff of disdain. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of revealing her building alarm. She ventured closer because to hover near the door smacked of cowardice. “No. I wouldn’t. At least I’m glad you chose the wrong bedroom. I’ll make sure Cassie keeps her windows locked from now on.”

  “I didn’t choose the wrong bedroom,” he said steadily, regarding her with an unwavering stare as she lit the lamp on her dressing table.

  “Of course you didn’t.” She made no attempt to hide her skepticism. He was yet to touch her. It did wonders for her wobbly confidence. “I assume you climbed the cherry tree. I’ll have to ask the gardeners to chop it back.”

  “That’s a prosaic response to a man daring convention to snatch a few moments alone with you, Miss Smith. Your maidenly heart should race with excitement.”

  She blew out the candle and turned. Again, desperately, she sought some outward sign of moral turpitude. As ever, she found nothing but breathtakingly virile male. Reviving anger swelled above dread and rel
uctant desire. He didn’t care that his actions could destroy her. She mattered less to him than the dirt beneath his feet. He was such a selfish swine.

  “Very romantic, I’m sure.” She raised her eyebrows and leaned against the table, hooking her hands over the edge to mask their trembling. “You’ve made my vulnerability clear. I’m suitably warned. You can go.”

  He looked amused and far too sure of himself. “Miss Smith, you should show more respect to your betters.”

  “You’re not my better,” she snapped before she remembered with a pang just who she was. No longer the pampered daughter of Lord Aveson. No longer Lady Antonia Hilliard, with a brilliant match ahead of her.

  He laughed again. “No, I doubt I am.”

  He paused, still staring. Wariness skittered through her veins. He wasn’t just decorative, he was clever. She feared the cleverness more than she feared the beauty. As if to prove her right, he continued, his voice dispassionate. “Antonia’s a damned incongruous name for a lowly domestic.”

  Fresh terror slithered down her backbone. A terror that he might discover just who drab Miss Smith was.

  Never let your enemy see his advantage. Never let him think he’d won.

  Hilliard pride injected a chill into her tone. “Lord Ranelaw, charming as I find this conversation, you must leave. If the servants hear a man in my room, or worse, see you, my reputation will be ashes.”

  He tilted one shoulder against the wall and folded his arms with a self-assurance that made her grind her teeth. “Nice try, my dear. But this room is a long way from the other bedrooms. Unless you scream, we’re safe.”

  On unsteady legs, she stepped away from the dressing table. “My maid will arrive any moment.”

  “You look after yourself. My sources of information indicate you’re an independent baggage.”

  “They indicate . . .” She faltered into appalled silence.

  Nervously she pushed her glasses up her nose. Sweet heaven, she’d been wrong to disbelieve him earlier. He hadn’t wanted Cassie’s room. He’d wanted hers. He’d taken the trouble to discover she had no maid. The dissolute marquess had targeted her. Fear of scandal became a sharper, more primitive fear of the male. And of her female weakness.

  “When I pursue a woman, I leave little to chance.” He spoke as if he considered the admission unimportant.

  She wouldn’t cower. And she wouldn’t surrender. Somehow he’d learned the household’s secrets. Dear God, save him from learning her other secrets. Painful, destructive secrets that would put her in Lord Ranelaw’s power.

  Reminding herself she was a survivor, she tamped down alarm. If Ranelaw expected an easy conquest, he’d be disappointed. She stiffened her backbone and glared, fighting because fighting was all she knew. Once she’d been defenseless as a kitten. That was many hard years ago.

  “Except you’re using me to get to Cassie.” Antonia’s tone slashed like a razor. “You imagine if you scatter a few crumbs of attention my way, I’ll become your cat’s-paw.”

  His eyes traveled over her, from her feet—in their sensible shoes, curse him—to her unflattering cap. For the past ten years, she’d dressed like this, plainly, unappealingly, shabbily. Like someone a good thirty years older. Surely it was her imagination that those perspicacious eyes sliced through the unbecoming garb to the real woman.

  In spite of her roiling resentment, that long, thorough survey was astonishingly arousing. Heat pooled between her thighs and her nipples peaked against her shift. Thank goodness thick wool hid how he affected her, although a rake would recognize she was far from indifferent. Perhaps he pursued her not only because of Cassie but because he scented her arousal. A man of his experience must also scent her loneliness, her desperation, her repressed passion. She loathed to think he read her most shameful desires and schemed to manipulate her through them.

  “You’re hard on yourself,” he said in a musing tone.

  “I’m realistic.” Her heart cramped with regret, even if he was worthless and dangerous and would come to a bad end. It was ten years since a man had looked at her with desire. Now that one did, he lied. She injected a taunting note. “I’d have credited you with a more subtle plan, my lord.”

  He shrugged, unabashed by her candor. “When the obvious promises success, why not use it?”

  “If I’m awake to your plot, you have no chance of success.” It shouldn’t sting that now she challenged him, he no longer pretended interest. To her everlasting regret, Lord Aveson’s vain, empty-headed daughter still lurked in her soul.

  “I imagine the antelope knows the lion wants to devour it. That doesn’t alter the outcome.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I’m far from a defenseless deer.”

  “Perhaps. But you’re no match for me.”

  She ground her teeth. What luck that he reminded her he was an arrogant ass. It helped combat this impossible physical attraction. “We shall see, my lord.”

  He flung his head back and laughed. She’d heard his unfettered laughter once or twice before. It was a free, joyous sound and seemed incongruous for such a world-weary rogue. The problem was the laugh was male and it echoed around her bedroom where no man had the right to be.

  “My lord, I beg you . . .” Panic made her leap forward to silence him. As she raised her hand to his mouth, she realized who he was, who she was, and she hesitated.

  His arm snaked around her waist, although he didn’t bring her against his body. Through tinted spectacles, she met eyes as black as pitch. Eyes that glinted with predatory awareness.

  “The noise . . .” she said, flustered. His grip felt immovable.

  “I thought you meant to tumble me onto the bed,” he murmured.

  As he spoke, his breath drifted over her face with suggestive warmth. Antonia couldn’t deny she’d thought about kissing that sensual, cynical mouth. Now, close enough to feel his heat, the impulse was nigh overwhelming.

  “You flatter yourself,” she retorted shakily, trying to pull away. Fear trickled through her veins like iced water. Fear of what he might do to her. Stronger fear of what she might do to him. “You can let me go.”

  “Why? I’ve got you where I want you—and you put yourself there, Miss Smith.”

  She struggled with more conviction. “I will scream,” she hissed through her teeth.

  He trailed his free hand down her cheek with a lingering softness she felt to her toes. “No, you won’t.”

  No, she wouldn’t scream. She couldn’t risk anyone coming in and finding them. With her history, nobody would believe she was innocent of inviting him.

  “Stop it.” The protest emerged as a wisp of sound.

  He traced the line of her jaw. No one, especially no man, had touched her with tenderness in years. The sweetness was a lie but her heart didn’t recognize that. Her heart expanded in uncontrollable longing. Oh, she was such an idiot. She swallowed the tears that clogged her throat and jerked her face away.

  “Can I take your glasses off?” he whispered, leaning forward to brush his cheek against hers.

  She hadn’t been this close to a man in years either. She was tinglingly aware how differently Ranelaw was made compared to her. The height. The strength. The leashed power. The stubble on his jaw.

  Stupid little rabbit she was, she’d stopped struggling. Her heart banged so madly, every thud rocked her. Through her daze, she took a few seconds to register what he’d said. He already reached to unhook her spectacles.

  “No!” She broke away, surprising him enough to force some space between them, although he didn’t release her. “I told you to stop it.”

  “Don’t you want to know what a kiss is like?” he murmured. “You strike me as a woman full of intelligent curiosity.”

  “You’re utterly patronizing,” she snapped back, straightening her glasses.

  “And you’re utterly beguiling.”
br />   Damn him, he sounded sincere. She reminded herself sincerity was a rake’s trick. “Don’t make me laugh.”

  He raised his hand to her face again, holding her when she tried to turn away. “Antonia, kiss me.”

  She struggled not to hear urgency. Rakes were never urgent. Rakes treated the world as one vast larder for their appetites. If one dish failed to satisfy, they indulged their cravings with another.

  “You have no right to use my Christian name,” she protested, sounding to her chagrin like a breathless virgin.

  He smiled at her, smoothing a few stray tendrils of hair that escaped her cap. More sweetness. More hankering from her reckless heart. “Foolish girl.”

  His hold remained implacable. And if she was honest, the magic of his touch transfixed her.

  Foolish girl indeed.

  She tried to inject some force into her voice—and signally failed. “I won’t betray Cassie for your beaux yeux.”

  He still stroked her temples. She wished he’d stop.

  She wished he’d never stop.

  “I don’t know if you have beautiful eyes. In fact, I know so little about you. It’s time that changed.”

  Even through the pleasure, that sounded ominous. She tried to escape but she was too late. He grabbed her lace cap and flung it to the floor.

  “Curse you, Lord Ranelaw!” she said on a burst of anger, and this time she wrenched free.

  She scrabbled for the cap. She hadn’t realized quite how strongly she clung to the elements of her disguise until Ranelaw threatened to deprive her of them one by one.

  She shook so badly it took her longer than it should to retrieve the scrap of lace. She rose, gripping it in both hands with a hold tight enough to tear.

  “Go,” she said in a low, throbbing voice. The tears that had threatened earlier surged closer to the surface. “Just . . . go.”

  She should have known he wouldn’t obey. Instead he stood stock-still. From their first meeting, his attention had been intense. Now his interest ratcheted up another notch.