"We had better stop," he said flatly, "before the guard gets back."
15
When all else failed,a visit to Hatchard's was Percy's panacea for ailments of any kind. Settling her maid on the bench outside the popular bookshop on Piccadilly Street, she entered the premises. The scent of vellum and ink comforted her ruffled senses like a cup of warm milk. One of the clerks standing behind the desk greeted her.
"Good morning, Miss Fines," he said with a little bow. "Is there anything in particular I can help you find today?"
"No thank you," she said. "I am just browsing."
"We recently received some new works you might be interested in," he said with a smile. "A few imitators of the inestimable Mrs. Roche and some of them quite good."
"Marvelous. I'll go take a look."
She headed through the rows of shelves with the familiarity of a mole navigating the hedgerows. This was her home away from home. Whenever she felt any sort of malaise, Hatchard's provided a gateway into another world, one where boredom and the nagging sense of purposelessness could not reach her. Today, however, a new set of feelings plagued her.
Confusion, if she had to name it. Topped by a healthy dollop of panic.
Memories of three nights ago flooded her, causing her breath to quicken. She tried to push away the thoughts as she skirted past the main reading area where gentlemen sat with newspapers before the fire. She made her way through the stacks to the section of novels at the back of the shop. Scanning the spines, she picked up a new title,The Castle of No Return. After a few seconds, when the florid prose failed to distract her, she snapped the book shut.
Blast Gavin Hunt. One night of adventure with him and even the most dramatic, far-fetched plot seemed tedious in comparison.
With a delicious shiver, she recalled his prowess against the cutthroats, the raw fearlessness with which he'd taken on three of them at once. Perhaps all the novel reading had given her a bloodthirsty streak for she had not found his aggression distressing. Far from it. To her mind, he'd battled with the ferocity of a true hero, one who'd never go down without a fight. What did disquiet her, however, were his actionsafterthe carnage.
Hunt had literally swept her off her feet. Cradled against his strong chest, she'd never felt more safe or... cared for. She'd caught him holding his breath as he examined her foot. Then he had kissed her, and all further thoughts had melted away, dissolving in the sweet, fierce burning of her blood. Even now, her bosoms ached with the memory of his shocking caresses, the way he'd groaned as he'd suckled her, telling her she was the most beautiful thing in the world…
Then had hestopped. Why?
She'd gone over that question countless times. Hunt had halted of his own accord; though it made her squirm to admit it, the notion of interrupting their embrace had been far from her own mind at that moment. He could have pressed his advantage, tried to take the wager… yet he hadn't. He'd kept her at arm's length until the guard returned and all during the journey home.
The man didn't seem the type to give up what he wanted. Which left her with another interpretation. One that, when coupled with his compassion for street urchins, made her question whether Hunt was the through-and-through scoundrel he made himself out to be. Beneath that hard, embittered exterior, could there be a man capable of compassion… tenderness, even?
How could Hunt be kind toward her and yet so ruthless toward her brother? 'Twas confusing, and that wasn't even accounting for her reactions to the man. Why did she find Hunt utterly compelling? For the last several months, she'd placed Lord Charles' distinguished countenance on the mantel of her fantasies, weaving tales about their happily forever after. Had she misled herself? Had her feelings for Portland been nothing more than infatuation?
She had to admit it: the reality of the viscount's company had fallen short of her expectations. And if she was to be brutally honest, at night when she closed her eyes, it was no longer his flawless visage she saw, but another's.
Scarred, imperfect… and terrifyingly real.
Dash it all, Hunt was heropponent. The man who held her family's future ransom. Not only that, but he tapped into a part of her that she desperately wanted to keep at bay. Because of him, she could no longer deny the wicked streak in her nature—but she'd be damned if she gave into those feelings. Thinking of Mama, her throat clogged. She would not bring further shame to those she loved by behaving like some depraved romp.
Lord, she needed someone to talk to, someone experienced in female matters. Charity, dear that she was, would not be of any help in this instance. If only Helena were here… Percy had come to think of the marchioness as an older sister, one in whom she could confide the sort of concerns that she dared not bring up with Mama.
Then the solution hit her.Of course.She would go straightaway.
At the rustling of skirts, Percy turned to see a patron approaching. A fair-haired girl, several years younger than she, came over to peer at the shelves. Bright, inquisitive eyes fell upon the book in Percy's hands.
"Excuse me, miss, but when you are finished, might I have a quick look at that novel?" The newcomer blushed. "I'm afraid I've been awaiting its release with bated breath."
Percy handed over the volume. "Please take it." With a bemused smile, she added, "I've read so many others like it that I think I'm ready for something different."
* * *
Percy arrived at her destination a half hour later. Rumor had it that Lady Draven had been left a fortune by her late and unmourned husband the baron, and she'd wasted no time in making use of her hard-earned wealth. Located on a stately street in Mayfair, the Draven residence was a lavish Georgian townhouse with gothic styling. Despite the morning sunshine, the property retained a distinctly mysterious air with its crenellated roofline and tracery windows. Percy climbed the short steps to the front entrance, which was recessed beneath a high arch.
A rather brutish-looking fellow answered the door. Claiming that he was the butler, he took Percy's card and left her to wait in the drawing room with a tea tray. She sat on the plush cushion of a curricle chair and admired the exquisite surroundings. Lady Marianne's famed sense of style extended beyond her wardrobe to the decoration of her home. The sea green walls and delicate French furnishings created an ambience of cool, self-assured femininity.
What would it be like to have such confidence in oneself?Percy wondered.
Her hostess entered minutes later. Clad in a dressing gown of peach satin, her silver blond hair flowing to her waist, Lady Marianne looked as radiant as Aphrodite.
