Chapter Three
Adrian’s feet wereunusually heavy as he climbed the stairs—the last remnant of the receding attack. The itch had begun at the tables and worsened while he and Bessie had been discussing his family.
Bessie should have known better than to broach the topic, although he knew she believed she had done so for his benefit. And, in the past, her warnings had been uncannily prescient.
Hell and damnation.
He didn’t like that she had known his mother long before she’d become the Black Widow. He didn’t like her knowing his family’s most closely guarded secrets. And, accurate or not, he certainly did not appreciate her presumptuous lecturing.
On the other hand, he would always be grateful for the service she had done the only person besides his sister he’d ever wished to protect. At a time, he’d had no power to do so himself.
His feelings toward the mother who’d abandoned him—albeit after a public scandal and divorce his father had forced—were complicated. Tonight was no time to unravel them. The Lyon’s Den’s upper rooms were the one place, at present, he felt, if not safe, at least somewhat sheltered.
Perhaps he had been too short with Bessie.
And perhaps there had been something to the widow’s censure.
An itch began anew just below his hip. He repeatedly snapped his fingers, concentrating on the friction and the subsequent pop. If he successfully turned his mind, he’d learned he could nip a second attack away before it blossomed.
And what better an excuse to shift the direction of his thoughts than the anticipation of a new lover? He’d been exclusively seeing the Skylark for months. Novelty could be exciting. This new woman might not be able to match the Skylark’s gift for soothing touch, but her preference for vigor—that sounded promising.
And one body could warm him as well as any other.
As he opened the door, a slipper-clad foot held out in front of the fire drew his gaze.
Nice.
A delicate ankle. A hint of healthy-muscled calf. Affixed to the slipper was a sparkling buckle in an unusual shape. A firework. In diamonds.
Like the Skylark, a wealthycit.
The leg disappeared into the shadows.
“Playing shy?” At present, he’d no patience for coquetry. He shrugged out of his tailcoat. “There’s no need to dissemble.” He unbuttoned his waistcoat before peeling away that garment, too. “Especially when we’ve both been informed of the other’s expectations.” He smiled to himself. “I’m told you are partial to enthusiasm.”
He brought back the memory of the hint of leg, the silk that clung to the flesh into vivid relief. He imagined that foot draped over his thigh. Naturally, his body stirred.
Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the darkness and part her form confined to shadow took shape. While he couldn’t clearly see herface, he could just make out the outline of a small but shapely bosom beneath her dress’s pale fabric.
Not just pale. White.
Strange choice for an assignation—what she had on would have been more appropriate to a debutante ball than to rooms such as these. But the body beneath the dress, and the chest heaving with what he hoped was anticipation…those, he’d certainly enjoy uncovering.
“You may trust”—he removed his braces as he prowled in her direction—“in my appreciation of your needs.”
He tugged a length of his voluminous shirt from his trousers. A feminine gasp halted his efforts.Wait.Could she see him?
He cocked his head. “You are, as previously agreed, blindfolded, are you not?”
Silence.
“My terms were that your eyes remain fully covered!”
“Your terms?” She made a high-pitched sound. Whether from anger or from fear, he couldn’t tell.
He frowned into the darkness, unsure of how to proceed. Her identity, he found as his eyes adjusted, was protected by some sort of odd-looking netting, whereas he was fully exposed.
Annoyed as he was, he prided himself on never having scared a woman who’d placed herself under his protection. He did not intend to start now.
