"Oh, I'm going to bed you, Ianthe. I'm going to fuck you as hard and as often as I can, but I'm not going to kiss you. Not unless you ask me, until you're on your knees begging for it."
"Do you hold the quality of your kisses so highly?" Nervousness trembled in her voice, along with desire. The way he said 'fuck' made her whole body jerk. She'd never been spoken to like that before in her life... and some dark part of her liked it.
Another slow heated smile. Rathbourne pushed away from her, letting go of her wrists. "A kiss is the measure of a person's soul. If you think them overrated, then you haven't been kissed, Miss Martin. Not well enough. That is how we shall know who's won. By whoever succumbs first."
Wisdom insisted she say no, but her eyes narrowed and she lowered her arms, feeling the sensation of his hands still manacling her own. "I think you'll kiss me first, so I shall accept your challenge, my lord. If anything, it should make this agreement of ours somewhat more intriguing." That earned a rise out of him, but she held up a hand. "Come. As fascinating as this is, we're late. Cross will have my head."
"Cross?" he arched a brow.
"My other savage, bad-tempered master," she replied.
He didn't like that at all, she noticed, as she swished toward the auditorium, putting an extra little swing to her hips.
The hollow, echoing silence of the auditorium was clear relief against the tumult of the streets. Lucien followed on the heels of Miss I-Shall-Make-You-Beg, knowing that he pressed too close to her.
The challenge in the entry had been a revelation. His gaze slid to the nape of her neck. Miss Martin had a seductive side that was well-nigh irresistible, though from the forced serenity of her expression one could barely tell.
Tonight... Tonight he would get to reveal that side of her again, even though she'd seemingly buttoned it all away. As she said, revenge could be incredibly sweet, and he was looking forward to it.
A sharp crack filled the air, an explosion of smoke and sparks onstage. Luc didn't think. Simply threw himself into Miss Martin, carrying her to the floor beneath him. The Shield hummed to life around him, the copper band around his wrist tingling icy cold as power flowed through it. It was one of the first workings he'd ever done, and relief flooded him as he realized the shielding bracelet still worked.
"Rathbourne!" she cried.
Ears buzzing with the heavy echo of silence, he looked up. A man had appeared out of the smoke, clad in shirtsleeves and a black silk waistcoat. A blood-red scarf was tied at his throat, and his pinstriped trousers were neatly pleated and immaculate.
"He likes to make an entrance," Miss Martin murmured, wriggling beneath him. Lucien realized he was crushing her a little.
"As do others," the man onstage called out, his voice ringing through the theatre. "Are you done mauling my assistant?"
Rolling to his feet, Lucien held out his hand to her. "I haven't yet started."
Miss Martin blushed at the innuendo. "Remy, meet Lucien Devereaux, the Earl of Rathbourne. Rathbourne, this is Remington Cross, The Great Conjurer."
"Delighted," Cross said flatly.
Lucien recognized the man from the posters now, though the picture there tended toward flattering, rather than realistic. In truth, the man's piercing dark eyes and aquiline nose were more hawkish than handsome. Though one couldn't doubt the overwhelming nature of his presence. Luc was dealing with a Master of Sorcery, if he wasn't mistaken, though he'd never encountered Cross among the Order's gatherings, and there were no rings on his fingers to indicate Cross's rank. "Likewise."
"And I'm retired, Remy." The words held some hint of fondness in them, as Miss Martin used his hand to gain her feet. "Remember? It's been three months. And Rathbourne wasn't mauling me, he was..."
"I thought it was an attack." Lucien scowled.
"How much?" Cross demanded, taking the stage in sharp strides and thundering down the stairs to meet her.
"How much what?" she replied.
"How much will it cost to get you back?"
"Annabelle does just as well onstage as I. You should be thankful that someone else is willing to put up with you."
"Aye." The man took her fingers, pressing a kiss to the back of them, as if Luc didn't exist. "But she lacks your presence."
"She lacks my rather impressive bosom," Miss Martin shot back. "You know my reasons. They haven't changed."
Something silent crossed between the pair of them. "Bah," Cross sneered. "Respectability is little more than a sham."
"Not to me, it's not. Besides, I'm busy," Miss Martin added. "I have my studies to attend to, before I take the next level tests, let alone my duties as Drake's seneschal." As if the matter were dealt with, she buffed her lips against Cross's smooth cheek, and gave him a wry smile. "I miss you too, Remy."
"Is that why you're here?"
