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On another grumbly snarl–what that sound did to her!–the stranger wrenched his mouth free and skimmed his lips along her jawline before clasping her earlobe between his teeth and delivering a sharp nip that he immediately soothed with his tongue.
Stars exploded behind her closed eyes, illuminating the blackness like a thousand fireflies all taking flight at once. Her head lolled helplessly to the side, giving him room to pepper a line of burning kisses along the slender line of her neck. But no sooner had he reached her shoulder than the hum of voices in the background grew considerably louder, indicating that someone was fast approaching.
In the blink of an eye–and with the practiced ease of a man who had needed to quickly extricate himself from a similar situation before–the stranger stepped away while simultaneously straightening his cloak and shoving the hem of his shirt back into his trousers.
She caught a flash of his gaze, hot gray iron, and then he was gone.
“Lady Annabel, mysincerestapologies.” Appearing harassed, the driver walked up and closed the door while she hastily slid to the furthest possible side of the carriage, hoping that the shadows were enough to disguise her disheveled appearance and swollen lips. “Those–those imbeciles were under the impression that this rig belonged to someone else and they were too foxed to listen to reason. I’ll have to tell His Grace about this,” the driver muttered, more to himself than to her. “He isnotgoing to be pleased. Are you ready to continue on, my lady?”
“Yes,” she said hoarsely. “Yes, please take me home.”
4
The Siren and the Sailor
What the fuckhad just happened?
Physically reeling and mentally shaken, Ezra blindly followed his friends into a hackney cab and stared out the tiny square window as it clattered down the street, his tumultuous storm of thoughts disguised behind a flat, unreadable expression save a slight pull in his brow.
The mix-up of the carriages he understood. His old schoolmates, while generally good fun, hadn’t enough brains between the three of them to outwit a donkey. It was onlyafterthey were stumbling away that Masterson recalled Lord Hatfield was conducting business in Bath until the end of the month, and Sandor had concurred with a sloppy, dimwitted smile of the incredibly inebriated.
“Let me out here,” Ezra called, slapping his palm on the bottom of the roof. A few flakes of paint came loose, dusting his cloak in crumbs of black as he waited for the hackney to come to a complete halt before throwing open the door and disembarking.
“But your townhouse is another two streets down!” Chambers protested.
“And we’ve rum left yet!” said Masterson, waving a silver flask in the air.
“Give me that,” said Sandor, grabbing the flask and tilting his head back.
“That’s not rum, that’s horse piss,” Ezra corrected. “And I fancy a walk. Goodnight, gentleman.” He gave a hard look at the driver, and before his friends could protest any further, the old man snapped the whip and the hackney continued on without him.
Shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers, he began to walk along the pavement, moving out of the way for the occasional couple that passed him from the other direction, their tailcoats and gowns an indication that they’d likely come from the ball at Audley’s…just like the siren in the carriage.
He referred to her as a siren because it was the only conceivable explanation for how he’d fallen under her spell. As he hadn’t learned her name, it was as suitable a moniker as any, and fitting besides. In the days of mermaids and pirate lore, sirens–half mortal, half mythical creature–were renowned for luring wayward seamen into shore with their captivating song…before they cackled with glee as the sailors dashed their ships upon the rocks.
To say he’d been shocked to open the door, expecting to find a terrified Lord Hatfield, only to find a frightened but adorably fierce kitten instead…it would be the understatement of the year. Of the bloodycentury. It was like unwrapping a present, anticipating a pair of wool socks, and having a diamond roll into his lap.
A shiny, gorgeous gemstone with cornflower blue eyes, waves of chestnut hair twined through with sunbeams, and the porcelain face of an angel. Winged brows, long lashes, arching cheekbones tinted with a delightful sweep of pink, and thatmouth.
Dear God, that mouth.
A cupid’s bow across the top lip, plump and soft as a pillow on the bottom. A mouth that promised sin, secrets, and seduction…paired with a virgin innocent who had a hint of wickedness in her gaze. Was it such a great mystery, then, why he’d not just steered his ship onto the rocks, but smashed the entire damned thing to splinters?
A kiss.
She’d asked him for a kiss–demanded, when it came right down to it–and against his better judgment, he had obliged her. As a courtesy. To make up for all of the holding-up-the-wrong-carriage business. He’d thought she was a wallflower feeling her oats. A prim miss who wanted to know what it was like to have a scoundrel give her a peck on the cheek. Except he hadn’t kissed her on the cheek. And she wasn’t a wallflowerora prim miss.
She was…she was…well, she was a siren.
And his ship was sinking.
Never, not once, not even for a fraction of a second, had he ever ended a kiss wantingmore. Oh, certainly he liked it when a kiss led to something else. But if it didn’t, he was unbothered. There would be other kisses. Other women. Other opportunities to make it to the bedroom (or the closest available vertical surface, if they were in a rush).
The moment he had walked away–the instant he’d lifted hishead–the kiss with the beauty in the carriage should have become an afterthought. But here he was, still dwelling on it. Still dwelling onher. And that…that he didn’t like.
Ezra scrubbed his hands across his face and gave his butler a curt greeting as he entered his townhouse, a new build of brick and stone tucked firmly between other homes of similar height and width that had replaced an abandoned factory infested with rats. The architect, an enterprising American chap whose name escaped him in his current mood, had been scooping up dilapidated and forgotten properties all over this area of Mayfair and beyond for pennies on the pound. What had once been disregarded by the nobility and landed gentry was now being fought over in bidding wars that often far exceeded the original sale price. Ezra was fortunate to have bought this house when he did, as it was already worth nearly double what he’d paid. Which was why he’d also gotten the homes on either side, ensuring himself a tidy investment and rental income besides.
