For the first time in years, Marianne felt her composure crack a little. "I was not screaming. I was alerting my man Lugo to my whereabouts. At any rate, I had the situation well in hand before you came barging in." With a start, she heard the irritation simmering in her voice. She drew a breath. When she was once again collected, she arched a brow and pointed a glance at his arm. "Do you doubt that I would hesitate to do what was necessary?"
"I doubt your common sense, my lady. And your ability to control your impulses. No pursuit of pleasure could be worth taking the risk you did tonight," he said grimly.
That did it. The judgmental pedant thought to govern her, did he? A memory slipped through before she could stop it: kneeling between Draven's withered thighs, shame and fear making her gag.Try harder, you useless cunt, or you shall never see your little Primrose again...
Chest constricting, she pushed the image aside. Let out a breath. From the moment of Draven's demise, she'd sworn to be her own mistress. No one—least of all this sanctimoniousnobody—would ever control her again.
Fury cleared her mind, made it as sharp and crystalline as ice.A plan took shape in her head, and its simplicity nearly made her smile.Lecture me, will you Mr. Kent? Well, we shall see who learns the lesson this eve.
"Obviously you haven't been pursuing the right pleasures," she drawled. "As a widow, I can assure you that certain delights are worth any risk."
His dark brows drew together, color spilling over the ridge of his cheekbones. Good—she'd shocked the prig. Before she could enjoy the spark of satisfaction, however, he said in dogged tones, "This isn't about me. It's about you and your disregard for your own safety. Many a constable's work would be lessened if only people practiced common sense—"
"And, you, Mr. Kent, are a fount ofcommonwisdom, are you not?"
Her sarcasm did not escape him. Despite his holier-than-thou attitude, Ambrose Kent was apparently no idiot. "I have seen suffering in my line of work," he said, "much of which could have been prevented with a little forethought."
"Indeed," she said in a bored voice.
"I do not wish to preach, my lady, only to be of service." The muscle along his jaw ticked again; Kent was not quite as unflappable as he wished to be. "If you think yourself above my advice, then don't take it."
"Above, sir? Not at all. In point of fact, I am in need of your services at this very moment."
His eyes—the shade of light filtered through amber—narrowed at her.
"We have arrived at my home," she said. The upward sweep of his long lashes indicated that he'd been so engrossed in his righteous dispensing of advice that he hadn't noticed the carriage stop. "And after the night's disquieting events,"—she faked a delicate shudder—"I shall require escort inside."
He frowned. "Can't your manservant accompany you?"
"He could. But I am requesting your presence specifically." She bestowed a sultry look upon him, one that typically reduced males to puddles at her slippered feet. The policeman, however, continued to eye her with suspicion. She let her lips take on a seductive curve. "I should like to privately express my gratitude for your intervention tonight."
His color rose. "If you've learned your lesson, then that will be thanks enough."
My, this manwasa challenge, wasn't he? Her interest piqued further. No male was without his Achilles' heel. And she had a good inkling where the chink in this would-be knight's armor was located.
"Perhaps another time, then," she said in a tone of indifference.
She tapped on the door, and it opened to reveal Lugo's impassive face. Ignoring the steps, Kent sprung easily to the ground and turned to offer her his hand. She took it, and as she alighted, she purposely missed a step.
Kent caught her. "Are you alright?" he demanded.
Crushed against the solid wall of his chest, she felt a strange wave of giddiness. She spoke, perturbed to realize that the breathlessness in her voice was not entirely feigned. "I must be more overset than I realized," she murmured. "Thank you, sir."
In the next instant, Kent swung her up in his arms.
"But your arm," she said in surprise.
"'Tis a scratch," he said dismissively. "I'll see you in."
4
Rarely didAmbrose ignore his instincts. They'd saved his hide more than once, and he respected anything that kept him alive. Yet, like a character in some topsy-turvy dream, he found himself carrying a mysterious baroness—who, incidentally, gave meaning to the expressionsoft and light as thistledown—up the steps of a hulking gothic mansion. Inside, he blinked at the brilliant pink marble atrium. If the exterior of the place was all doom and gloom, the interior created the opposite effect, one of elegance and light.
Overhead, a tiered chandelier winked with crystal teardrops, and watered ivory silk flowed over the walls. Eyeing the large glass-fronted cabinet in his path, Ambrose navigated past with care. Even so, a Chinese vase rattled within, and his breath held until the bloody thing stilled. The piece of blue and white porcelain probably cost more than his year's wages.
"Would you mind taking me to my suite, sir?" Lady Draven tipped her head back to meet his eyes. "I'm afraid the steps may be a bit much for me at the moment."
How could he refuse that bewitching gaze? Tucking her closer, he followed the African manservant up the grand curved stairwell to the first floor. Even the hallway whispered of extravagance; his boots sank into cream carpet thick enough to sleep upon, and he lost track of the number of rooms they passed. At the end of the corridor, the servant ushered him into a lavish suite of peach and pale gold.
