The Midnight Man. Charlotte MedeЧитать онлайн книгу.
we’ve met,” he said finally. She was relieved that he spared them the charade of rising and sketching a bow. “Nicholas Ramsay at your service, Lady Hartford.”
Helena shook her head, dispensing with anything resembling tact or savoir faire. The name, without a title, meant absolutely nothing to her. Possibly a good thing if it indicated that he didn’t run with her late husband’s crowd. “I’m at a distinct disadvantage, sir.” As always, her reputation had preceded her. “You know more about me, clearly, than I about you.”
He caught her with his expressionless eyes. “I shouldn’t think that would disturb you, Lady Hartford. From what I’ve gleaned, you’re a woman who lives rather freely, doing exactly as she pleases, regardless of society’s demands and strictures.”
An arrogant, and a monumentally ill-considered, assumption. She felt unaccountably irritated because here was yet another man bestowing his estimation on her behavior. Her head pounded and her blood warmed to low simmer. “And that’s what you think, is it, Mr. Ramsay?” Helena returned both hands to her lap and tried to keep the scorn from her voice. “And so what does please me? You seem overly well informed about my likes and dislikes.”
“I’d be overly bold in answering that question.”
Helena’s eyes narrowed. “Your reticence is far from disarming, Mr. Ramsay, or even remotely convincing.” As though this man were afraid of anything. His long legs, the muscles hard, were mere inches from her own. He was immaculately, expensively dressed, although his garments lacked the usual embellishments favored by fashionable men of society.
Her reaction to him made no sense and even the opium in her system didn’t account for the fact that moments earlier, before this wave of irritation and anger, she’d been all but ready to take him to her bed in a headlong rush of desire.
Desire. Passion. They belonged to the exclusive terrain of her work and little else. Until now.
She was a fool if she didn’t acknowledge this was a dangerous man. Lord Beckwith had.
She dared another glance at his strong profile, the radiance from the chandelier gleaming against his thick hair cut unfashionably short. The full force of his gaze was disquieting more so because she doubted that his eyes ever reflected the light.
Silly, fanciful thought.
“I don’t believe this conversation is going much of anywhere fruitful, sir,” she said, shifting away from him on the chaise in an attempt to bring the unfortunate encounter to a quick close. Something was wrong here and she didn’t have the luxury of finding out what it was. “I believe I’m ready to depart for the evening. I shall have a hansom called.”
As she moved to rise, she felt a hand, hard and strong, on her wrist.
“I didn’t take you for a coward, Lady Hartford.”
Still shaky on her feet, she sat back down on the chaise. She desperately hoped to make a quiet exit. “Whatever you believe about me is inconsequential, sir.”
He leaned forward and his power struck her like a physical force. “Please let me go.” But he didn’t and she knew she couldn’t afford to make a scene. Not here. Not anywhere. Not anymore.
“You’re not a coward, so why not be honest with yourself? What did you feel moments ago? Fear?” His voice dropped to a lower register. “Or desire?”
The timbre in his voice had changed to something possessive, something dark. His eyes bored into hers. “Whatever you’re running away from, I can help—better than opium,” he said in silken tones. “I came here for you tonight.”
A fresh drug slammed through her body, rushing her senses. Her face flushed with heat and he hadn’t even touched her. Yet. Hidden in the folds of her skirt, his fingers slipped around her hand.
“Look, I can’t, not here,” she murmured, confused, the pressure of his hand indecent and arousing. He bent close and she shut her eyes.
“Yes, you can, Helena.” He brought his mouth close to hers. “And you will.” A heavy thrum pulsed between her legs. She felt his lips on her forehead, her cheeks, her eyelids. And then her mouth.
He pushed her gently back into the cushions. The luxurious press of his lips made her believe that the whole night stretched in front of them. The sweeping stroke of his tongue began a tantalizing rhythm—lazy, sensual thrusts and withdrawals that seduced with the subtlety of a master and the intent of an invading army. The taste of him made her breath come faster, the sweep of that clever tongue sending bright waves of shock straight to her breasts and between her thighs. Unwillingly, she lifted her hand to trace the sharp angle of his jaw before the other grasped the nape of his strong neck.
His arms pulled her close as he turned her face, slanting that devilish mouth down her throat where he took small bites along the sensitive curve of her neck, following with the touch of a warm tongue. Helena arched beneath him, only to have his lips return to her mouth to begin again. Shaking with reaction, she threaded her fingers through the short silk of his hair, a soft moan escaping from her mouth to his.
“I have to go,” she murmured, disoriented and weak, halfheartedly curving away from him. “This isn’t right…. I’m not feeling myself.” Her body vibrated, in response to him or the remnants of the opium, she wasn’t sure. Before she could catch her breath, he rose to his full height and pulled her from the chaise. Stumbling against him was like slamming into a wall of rock, and she barely reached his chin. Her lassitude instantly vanished and she tried to focus on the fine ivory buttons that marched up the front of his shirt.
“I have another place in mind if that helps.” Ramsay had yet to release her, the iron band of his arm around her waist.
Helena lifted her face to his, aware of the gray eyes that were cold against the warmth of his embrace and the heat of his words. This was no ordinary man. I came here for you tonight.
And suddenly she was afraid.
“Who are you? Why are you even here?” The questions spilled from her lips in no particular order. Looking frantically around the room, she pulled away and, miraculously, his hands dropped to his sides, hands that were large and all too capable with their hardened strength against her skin. “What is it you really want from me?” she whispered. They always wanted something.
He looked down at her with those empty eyes and it struck her that his face could have been minted on a Roman coin. Hard, cold, and resolute.
“I meant what I said earlier, Lady Hartford. I can give you what you want.”
The room was closing in around her, the red walls like the chambers of a heart. “I have an ample choice of lovers.” Her voice was pure bravado. She quickly glanced over her shoulder again in the hope they were not being observed. With some distance between them, her pulse slowed and her blood cooled. What remained was familiar—fear. Ramsay knew who she was, had known, when coming looking for her. In her earlier stupor, she had allowed herself to deny the obvious.
She began to shiver despite the hothouse air of the salon. Suddenly, the red velvet and dark shadows were all the more oppressive, smothering, the pall of smoke catching the back of her throat. She had to leave and only a broad chest and over six feet of solid muscle stood in her way.
“I’m sure you do.” He kept his voice neutral. “But this has nothing to do with seduction, Lady Hartford, regardless of the unusual circumstances. If it makes things easier for you, think of this initial meeting as a detour, although a pleasurable one, I’ll admit.”
Her head snapped up. “A detour?” Her jaw clenched. “I’m leaving, right now.”
“And I’m going with you.” Before she could react he pushed her toward the front doors of the house. He moved casually, elegantly, despite his size and as though escorting women from one of London’s most illustrious and debauched opium dens was a daily occurrence. The light from the wall sconces flickered, the scenes around the room a bacchanalian landscape. No one noticed when he gestured to the majordomo