Chapter Nine

Upon returning from the park with Peter, Ophelia did not indulge her mother, who wanted to know every detail of their outing. Instead, she quickly excused herself, pleading a slight headache, and rushed to the privacy of her room to read the second note. The entire time she had laughed and chatted with the earl, admiring his new curricle, it had burned a hole in her pocket, taunting her.

A kiss from you to me. That was all she’d been able to think about.

Closing her door firmly, she dipped into the pocket of her day dress and retrieved the envelopes. Ophelia turned over the other folded note she had ignored earlier. This time, there was no money, and relief pulsed through her—though it was quite short-lived when she read his words.

One kiss, five thousand pounds.

Two kisses, another five thousand pounds.

Three kisses, another five thousand pounds.

And if you grant me a fourth, the total sum before double.

Perhaps with four kisses, Fifi, I shall stop thinking about kissing you.

“You scoundrel,” she gasped, her fingers tightening over the paper. He would so casually pay thirty thousand pounds for four kisses. Her entire body shook with mortified heat. What manner of nonsense was this, and did he really own such a fortune?

Angered in a manner she did not understand, Ophelia called for the carriage to deposit her at Grosvenor Square. She was careful to don her blond wig and a dark green silk pelisse with its frog fastening. Walking down the winding stairs, she paused at the soft call of her name. She gripped the banister and looked up. Cousin Effie lingered in the hallway, a book pressed against her bosom.

“Are you heading out?”

“Yes. I plan to call upon a friend.”

Effie seemed indecisive, then her lips firmed. “I will be there in a few minutes.”

Frustration surged through Ophelia. “Effie, it is too absurd! I am not a fresh-faced chit that needs to be hovered about. I appreciate your dedication to the task Mama set before you, but I’ll not accept your hypocrisy.”

Her cousin gasped, outrage parting her lips.

Ophelia held up a hand to forestall her reply. “I went out just now with Lord Langdon, and you were conveniently absent. I will not await you. I will be home in two hours.”

Hurrying down the stairs, she went to the front parlor to await the carriage’s arrival. Cousin Effie might have gone for her mother, and Ophelia braced for an argument but was quite relieved that neither showed. A few minutes later, she entered her family’s carriage and was rattling away to Grosvenor Street. She gave specific instructions for the carriage to park two homes down from number thirty-six. So righteous in her indignation, it did not occur to Ophelia to wonder if a man as busy as Devlin Byrne would be home at three in the afternoon. Only after she knocked on his door and glanced about the streets did the idea float through her thoughts.

“Drat,” she muttered, about to turn around when the door opened.

The butler stood at the door, his expression one of comical amazement. The man looked up and down the street and even lifted his face to the heavens.

“My good sir, are you wondering if I fell from the sky?” she asked crisply, bemused by his incredulity.

He drew himself up sharply. “Forgive my startlement, but my…my…there has not been a visitor in… We have never had a lady visitor. Have you called at the right address, my lady?”

“Is this the home of Mr. Devlin Byrne?”

The butler caught his splutter and assumed a mien of professionalism. “Yes, my lady. But he might not be home to you…my lady.”

“Please inform Mr. Byrne that Lady Fifi has called about an important matter. You will see me to whichever lower room has a fire, and tea and cake will do nicely,” she said with a smile, hoping to put him at ease.

Clearly, the man was flustered.

“Of course. Right away, my lady.”

Ophelia did not hand over her pelisse when she entered. The butler ushered her to a tastefully decorated drawing room where a fire already roared in the hearth. The room was pleasantly warm and smelled like roses.

She did not have to wait long before the door was flung opened.

“Did something happen? Are you safe?”

Ophelia spun around at his rough, urgent demands. “I am well,” she said, fighting back the ridiculous heat climbing in her cheeks and the warmth blooming in her heart at his concern.

A dart of awareness prickled along her skin. She had interrupted Devlin’s dressing.

He looked so darkly handsome and splendid, his silk shirt open at the neck revealing the corded muscles of his throat, the fine wool of his trousers accentuating the slimness of his hips and the muscles in his legs. He was without shoes. Or stockings. She had never seen a gentleman’s toes before—not even her father’s. An odd thought to have, and Ophelia hated that she was flustered.

His dark green eyes, filled with alarming savagery, rested upon her. “Why are you here? Did someone hurt you?”

At her lack of response, Devlin prowled over to her and took her chin between his fingers, tilting her face up to him. His touch shook the ground beneath her. Bare skin to bare skin. The feel of his finger against her skin…callused yet gentle, was an imprint she felt to her bones.

What if the pads of these fingers were to coast over the softness of her body? Ophelia wrenched away from him, putting distance between them and her shocking thoughts. “No one hurt me. That is not why I am here.”

He made a sharp, slicing sweep of his hand. “I did not expect you to ever show up here. Tell me what has happened.”

Suddenly, she felt foolish to have barged into his home. “I…” She laughed. “I…upon reflection, I can see my visit was entirely unnecessary. Please forgive my intrusion. I should return home right away.”

His expression closed. “Not until you tell me what urged you to come here.”

Blowing out a sharp breath, she tugged open the drawstring of her reticule, fumbled around, and withdrew the envelope with the notes. “I wanted to know: what is the absurd meaning of this?”

He looked briefly, chillingly amused before his expression once again became inscrutable. “My note was clear.”

Her stomach did a frightening little flip. “I assure you I am not understanding the matter.”

“I was offering you money for kisses.”

She widened her eyes, genuinely shocked by the infuriatingly casual admission. “I do not want your money,” she said, tossing the note to the ground. “I am guilty of accepting such outrageous payments for a song and dance…but this!”

“I offended you,” he said in soft contemplation. “That was not my intention. Please tell me how I might remedy the situation.”

“I am not a doxy! To offer me money…for a kiss…” Her chest lifted on the harshness of her breathing. Now she understood the burn that had lived inside her chest since reading his note. She was angry that he could so coldly offer money for something she foolishly yearned for. There were little feelings within him while she…while she could not stop thinking about the press of his lips to hers. “I am not a damn doxy or courtesan for you to pay for a kiss!”

He stilled. “Would you have given it willingly…without incentive?”

Yes! erupted in her mind, but she caught it in her throat. “That is entirely beside the point.”

Her expression must have betrayed her words, for knowledge of her wanting him flashed in his eyes. With profound sadness, Ophelia noted he was shocked. Had every relationship of his been cast from transactions and bargains? Did he not trust that she could desire him for more than what his pockets offered?

He walked over to her; nay, he prowled as the sensation of being hunted blossomed through her entire body. Yet Ophelia did not move but lifted her chin to meet his gaze with a defiant toss of her head.

He skimmed his fingers over her cheek, almost tentative in his exploration, very much at odds with the savage carnality of his expression. His gaze searched every nuance of her features as if he was trying to imprint something on his mind. “Tell me the truth, Fifi. If I had asked for your mouth as if asking for a dance, would you have given it to me?”

There was something sensually crude about his words, the almost cruel slant of his mouth, the dark desire flaring in his eyes that brought forth a flush to her cheeks. There was a low arousing thrum at the base of her spine, a musical note of lust that was intent on blossoming throughout her body. Its melody felt dark and complex.

Ophelia admitted then she was wildly, outrageously attracted to Devlin Byrne.

If this was wickedness, she wanted it…to swallow it whole and let it consume her. Just for a moment in time.

Her racing heartbeat was spilling all her secrets, for surely he could hear it, and within its erratic beat, Devlin would discern the wild hunger burgeoning for him. Dangerously, brazenly, weakly, she wondered how it would feel if she reached out to touch the fullness of his mouth. Tipped on her toes and kissed it. She felt an exquisite awareness of him, a sensation never felt before in her life. Her breasts swelled with languorous heaviness, her breathing fractured, and the unfamiliarity of her reaction frightened Ophelia.

Nothing in life should be this intense. She swallowed. “I…no…I…”

The few gentlemen who had tried to steal kisses from her had been gallant, quoting poems and subtly drifting closer to her. Ophelia had always danced away from their reach, entirely disinterested in their practiced seduction and flirtations.

If I had asked for your mouth…

There was nothing practiced about that raw demand, nothing suave and charming. His callused thumb found its way to her mouth, and he gently rubbed that thumb over her bottom lip. “What if I had simply taken it, hmm? Would you have recoiled from me…and frantically scrubbed my taste from you?”

Tendrils of alarm and excitement speared through her stomach.

No. I would lick my lips in the hopes I would never lose your taste.

Ophelia felt as if she were falling from a high cliff, for she knew, without a doubt, Devlin Byrne would kiss her before she departed his home. Her heart was a pounding mess, and her knees were weak. It was more than that; butterflies wreaked havoc with her stomach.

“What if I should take your mouth now? What would you do, Fifi?”

“Take? You may only taste me if I am willing to permit it.”

A rough, low groan came from him even as admiration lit in his eyes, and he lowered his hands. “Do you want the money?”

“My mouth is not for sale,” she said with an unexpected spurt of black humor. “I daresay there are ladies you can purchase for a pittance.”

“It is you I want, Fifi.”

There. The mask of indifference cracked, and the desire she spied sent a frantic thrill through her heart. “And is that the only way you know how to go about it?” she demanded pertly. “To offer money for intimacy?”

A shadow darkened his eyes to emerald. “Ah, you mean I lack the finesse of a gentleman.”

“Yes,” she said. “There is no subtlety or art to your flirtation.”

“Is that what you want, Fifi—subtlety?” he drawled bitingly. “Flowers, poems, and long walks?”

“A wholly unremarkable experience for you, I can tell.”

“What a tart tongue you have,” Devlin murmured, his eyes darkening with amusement and something terribly lascivious. And that very look called to something wild and improper inside of her.

“I never said I was one of your tonnish men, Fifi. I am simply a man wanting his woman…”

“I am not your woman!”

He took her chin between his fingers, bent, and kissed her lightly on the corner of her lips. “A man wanting a particular woman with every breath in his body and foolishly thinking money was the way to do it. I’ve never had any hand at courting.”

She tried not to blush or fidget at his slow, measured, and very sensual appraisal.

“Is that what you are doing? The song…the dance…the thousands of pounds, courting me?”

His regard was intent and unreadable. “If I were?”

Her heart stuttered. “For marriage?”

He tapped the tip of her nose. “How aghast the lady sounds.”

His words were laced with indifference, but his eyes bespoke emotions she could not fathom.

“It is mere surprise, not dismay.” Ophelia was unable to stop staring at him. The very notion that he might truly wish to marry her was simply outrageous and so…wonderful. No…no…not wonderful; it cannot be wonderful. Devlin did not love her, and she certainly did not love him. Worse, her parents would never suffer their union. The embarrassing nature of such a connection would see her father using all his power and influence to cast Devlin Byrne from her life and their society. Ophelia did not want to imagine to where he would be hurled—in Newgate on fabricated charges or the bottom of the Thames.

Its mere contemplation was frightening, for it showed how little faith she had left in her father’s honor. The marquess was a man of power.

And so is Devlin, a little voice whispered.

Dear God. Ophelia gripped his hands at the wrists. “Devlin—”

“I urge you to be at ease, Fifi. I am not a fool in love with stupid…impossible expectations,” he murmured with rough amusement. “Wipe the fright from your eyes.”

“Then, if marriage was not your expectation, what do you want? Friendship?” she said tartly. “One with kisses?”

“Yes…and more. Then perhaps we will walk away with the memory to keep us both, hmm? Or perhaps we will stay together and damn everyone else to hell.”

“You are the devil,” she cried, perfectly interpreting the gleam in his eyes and the low, dangerous ache that rolled through her body.

“Ah,” he said on a hum of rich pleasure. “That means you are very close to giving in to temptation.”

Wickedness was plentiful within the gentle purr of his voice. A desperate ache went through her. “And that is what you wanted? Four kisses?”

“A taste of you might succor me for a lifetime. How was that for me being poetic?”

Ophelia laughed, surprising herself with how very provocative she sounded. “A credible attempt.”

His eyes gleamed, and there was a touch of humor in his gaze. He liked it. This back-and-forth between them.

Amidst the laughter, a slender, delicate thread of something impossible wove its way into her heart…her very soul. It was more than the comfort she felt in their past connection, and it was more than friendship. It felt blazingly close to… Oh, God, she could not say it…she could not think it. A liking. There…she liked him.

“I do not want to lie to you,” he murmured, his gaze intent on her face. “Ever. I do not want to pretend to be someone else when I am with you, Fifi. I was not…raised as a gentleman. Do not hold me to those standards I might never understand. Know I would never hurt you or allow a hair on your head to be hurt. I would not lie to you. Nor would I ever show you discourtesy. Even with the years between us, I know you to be precious.”

She briefly closed her eyes, searching deep in her heart for all those reasons to flee from Devlin. She was wading into dangerous waters, and she had no knowledge of how to keep herself from drowning. There was a roaring sound from a distance, as if wind rushed down and swept her upward with dizzying force, crushing all objections before they were formed.

“Then tell me with all honesty. What do you want from me, Niall?” she whispered.

“I would give all the money in the world for a taste of you, and to have that taste every morning and every night. Fucking stupid, but there you have it. I am courting you to my bed.”

Good heavens.

Unable to be alarmed by his crudeness, she swallowed. There was an awful weak feeling low in her belly. It was almost as if she wilted against the door. “You are courting me to…to your bed?”

“Yes.”

Forbidden lovers.

Devlin wanted her in his bed. Something elusive curled inside Ophelia, heating her entire body, especially that secret place. “I do not think my friends would approve.”

He lowered his head so that his mouth hovered near hers. “Is that a yes, Fifi?”

“You are a madman,” she whispered.

“That is not a denial.”

Even if she had tried to step back, she couldn’t have; desire had hooked itself low in her belly and tugged her toward him, toward madness. Her stomach dipped, the sensation strange, but it felt as if she were falling, down and down and down, the way it was in dreams and hopes and nightmares and everything terrifying and electrifying. Very slowly, very deliberately, giving her all the time to resist, Devlin threaded his fingers through the dark strands of her hair, brought his mouth down to hers, and kissed her. Her entire world contracted to the heat of his lips pressed to hers…their sensual softness, the hot flames sparking under her skin.

Oh God!

She tried; Ophelia dearly tried to hide her reaction but abysmally failed. That soft whimper was an admittance of desire. The tentative way she stroked her gloved fingers over his exposed throat was a confession of the yearning she felt for him.

Her entire being ached with want.

Devlin Byrne was like the gambling den he associated with…sparkling, extravagant, forbidden. Accepting his kiss was surrendering to the things Ophelia craved in the dark of night. The very thought weakened her knees. And, deep in the pit of her stomach, an ache bloomed. Her heartbeat surged in recognition of the desires she kept hidden, and with a sigh of wonder, she parted her lips.

Ophelia surrendered.