Page 48 of The Lady is Trouble
“Call it an agreement if that better suits.” She raised her voice to climb above the argument between Ranier and Maitland, which had escalated to gentlemanly fisticuffs. “Between friends.”
“Name them then,” he bit out, the sconce’s light sparking off his glass and tossing a prism on the chalked floor, “the terms for this friendly agreement.”
She ticked off the points on her fingers. “The lodge. The night after we return. A full night. Oh”—she pointed—“andthe next morning. No cheating about the time. No running out at dawn. Let them bring another round of chocolate. I want to utilize every benefit of country living.”
He took her arm, gently moving her aside as Everleigh, who’d been knocked off his feet by a blow to the chest, slid to a stop between them.
“Many thanks, Beauchamp,” Everleigh said after accepting Julian’s help up, then he shoved through the crowd and leaped back into the fray.
“What about clothing?” Julian asked, nonchalantly wiping Everleigh’s blood on his coat.
“Clothing?”
“Am I to render these services with or without clothing?” His gaze sliced through her, and her breath caught at the savage look on his face. All refuted by his steady voice, as if nothing monumental transpired. “Just so I’m adequately prepared should I accept.”
She tried to recall the images she’d seen in the French text in the library in Gloucestershire, the one hidden on a top shelf behind a row of Dickens’ first editions. Her cheeks stung as she imagined Julian leading her through those acrobatic poses. Had the people in the drawings been clothed? She pulled her cheek between her teeth in thought. “I would guess both are possible.”
“They are.” Dazed, he looked to be running through the possibilities himself.
“That is to say, unclothed and maybe—” She chanced a glance at him and slipped beneath the waves. This expression she had seen once before, when he was poised above her, his hips locked in place as he created a steady rhythm, crowding her into the floor. She’d been close to orgasm then, something she’d only experienced in the privacy of her bedchamber. Always in fantasy partnership with the brooding man standing before her.
If she told him this, they might not make it out of the ballroom, so she kept it to herself.
The scuffle concluded, and the circle surrounding the men disbanded, people scattering across and into their path. Most were laughing, champagne in hand, including the two combatants, the gala a supreme success in terms of entertainment value. Piper wished she hadn’t added to the significance of the evening, but, if she were honest, knew she had. Julian nodded to those who called out to him; Piper did the same with a bland look that offered no invitation to deepen the connection. She wanted to tuck herself in a corner and hide. The color parade assaulting her was beginning to vex.
The orchestra started to play, and Mozart’s haunting composition echoed through the ballroom. Julian dug his watch from his waistcoat, flipped open the case, and glanced at it with a sigh. He had done a stellar job of avoiding her gaze for the last five minutes.
“Jules,” she said, question or plea she wasn’t sure.
Impeccably timed, Finn interrupted, out of breath from elbowing his way through the crowd, a tumbler of what looked to be brandy in each hand. His cravat was askew, his hair a glorious tangle, his cheeks rosy, too rosy for a march across a ballroom. With a sinking feeling, Piper wondered what female had sucked him in and spit him out.
His grin spoke of an unparalleled experience.
Julian examined Finn from head to toe, his aura shredding. Piper felt a flash of compassion; she and Finn couldn’t make a sound decision between them.
“What a crush!” Finn thrust a tumbler in her hand. Julian took the other and in return, presented his empty one, which Finn accepted with a scowl. “I could barely make it across the room. Gads, the thoughts running through the minds of these deviants. I didn’t even have to touch anyone to get most of it.”
“A far easier journey if you were ugly,” Julian murmured.
Finn laughed, pursing his lips. “Yes, but then everythingelsewould be more difficult.”
“True,” Julian agreed and took a slow sip. The movement brought her regard to his mouth, along with the remembrance of him working her bottom lip between his teeth, then smoothing with his tongue just after. Awareness surged with more force than a river of brandy. Her glass shifted, and an amber drop dribbled on her glove. Adrift, she touched the damp spot to her cheek.
Lost to another time, another place.
Julian tracked the movement, and when he spoke, his voice was husky. “Meet me at the servant’s staircase off the kitchen. North side of the house. Thirty minutes. Don’t be late.” He jabbed his finger in Finn’s chest. “Not one second.”
Finn jerked his thumb back as if to say:what about her? Piper opened her mouth to tell them she was bloody well coming—
“Bring her,” he said and elbowed his way into the throng. He glanced over his shoulder before the crowd gobbled him up. There was bold promise in that look. “I can’t fight us both.”
Then he was gone.
Sidonie gazed from the carriage window at the theatre of society on full display. The Duke’s townhouse was ablaze. Every window lit, a sea of footmen, maids, and partygoers mingling as they would not dare if they encountered each other on the street. She’d been born into that glittering life. Destined for an extraordinary existence of frivolity until her mind left her, vacated rather abruptly without notice, leaving her a quaking shell.
Her yearning to interact with the healer—Piper—had not abated, but Sidonie was determined to succeed where they had failed miserably before. Rushing in without full understanding of the situation had led to the earl’s blood staining her hands. She was heavily armed this time—but so was Julian Alexander. “Vicomte,” she whispered, the language of her country calming her. Harbingdon would not make an easy target, surrounded by thick forest and secured at every split in the wood. And there had been no opportunity in London. The boy, too, was proving harder to read, gaining strength, likely from the healer, who was by his side.
The time was not right, not yet.