Her features smoothed. Aselkiewith her magical, impenetrable skin in place.
"I hope you haven't the wrong idea, Mr. Kent. You're not even the first man I've shot, let alone made advances upon," she drawled. "So let us be clear: I was considering one night with you—two if your performance exceeded my expectations." She gave her skirts a flick. "Trust me when I say no man has held my attention for more than a night or two."
"I could be the first." Why the devil did he say that?
"I doubt it. Come to think of it," she said, tapping a finger to her chin, "I should shop around first. Sample a few wares before I make my decision."
Scarlet flashed across his vision. He was not jealous by nature, and yet the thought of any other man sharing her bed made him want to growl with rage. His fists clenched.
"One of these days, my lady, you'll push me too far," he bit out.
"Is that a threat?" she said with a scornful curve to her lips.
"Not a threat. A promise."
They stared at each other, the air taut with challenge. As if they tugged an invisible rope between them, neither gave any ground. His muscles bunched with the instinct to haul her back into his arms and settle this matter in a more primitive fashion. His mouth on hers, his cock buried in her silken heat...
Her gaze narrowed. Without breaking eye contact, she reached out and rapped sharply on the carriage door. He'd been so far gone that he hadn't realized that the vehicle had come to a stop. The door opened, revealing Lugo's unreadable features and a looming gaming club behind him.
Taking her manservant's arm, Lady Draven descended with haughty grace.
"Try to keep up, will you Mr. Kent?" she tossed over her shoulder.
Ambrose waited a moment to collect himself. To reestablish his self-discipline and good sense... and to let his bloody cockstand subside. Only then did he blow out a breath and follow her into the hell.
10
Despite the urgencyof the night's mission, Marianne found that it required a surprising amount of willpower to stay focused. She and the three men were seated around a coffee table in Gavin Hunt's office. The ransom note had arrived, and now they were debating the strategy for rescuing Percy from the villains. Marianne kept her gaze firmly away from Kent, who was sitting beside her on the divan. Under no circumstances would she give him the satisfaction of seeing her ruffled.
Awareness of his proximity tingled over her skin. Surely she imagined the heat that seemed to emanate from him, the corresponding melting sensation low in her belly. To think that he'd had the temerity to touch her so boldly... beneath her bodice, her nipples pebbled, her intimate muscles fluttering.
Cease this foolishness immediately. You're no longer a foolish girl subject to her impulses. Master yourself—for Rosie's sake, if not your own.
She took a steadying breath. Then fate intervened, demanding her full attention.
Hunt tossed a bundle of letters upon the coffee table, describing them as ammunition. Apparently the missives held proof that Hunt's enemy—who had captured Percy—had also wronged someone else. And that someone was none other thanBartholomew Black.
"If Black learns of the betrayal, he may intervene," Hunt said. "But to contact him will be to stir up a hornet's nest. Black is dangerous, unpredictable—and he's as like as not to shoot the messenger."
"I'll deliver the letters."
Marianne's gaze swung to Kent at his calm assertion. The proud jut of his chin conveyed his determination as did the tight line of his lips. Firm and sensual, those lips had suckled her so sweetly...
"Black smells a Charley, and you'll be dead before you reach twenty paces of his place." Hunt's blunt words jerked her back; she could not agree with his assessment more. "It has to be me."
"Risky. If you get detained, then Percy..." Harteford's grey eyes turned hard as flint.
The ransom note had demanded that Hunt be the one to meet the captors. The exchange was to take place at midnight, at an old blacking factory on the outskirts of the city. Like the others in the room, Marianne knew it was a suicide mission, with little hope of Hunt or Percy getting out alive.
Marianne's throat tightened. Sometimes, destiny had a way of making one's decisions. She'd already prepared herself to walk into the lion's den; what difference would it make to go to Black a day earlier?
"I'll do it," she said. Rising, she picked up the letters.
"Thehellyou will." Kent was on his feet the next instant. His gaze pinned her, the darkness of his pupils edging out the amber; above the crumpled mess of his cravat, his neck muscles corded, and she saw a vein pulse beneath his jaw. The possessiveness in his tone was unmistakable.
Ignoring the ridiculous shiver that chased over her nape, she said calmly, "I don't require your permission, Mr. Kent." She tucked the packet into her reticule, and Kent's jaw grew even tighter. Really, if the man was not careful he might crack a tooth.
"This is far too dangerous—" Harteford began.
