it when I kiss you?’ he murmured into her skin.
‘Yes.’ She shuddered against him.
He ran a finger inside the neckline of her gown and pulled the dress away from her body, pushing to slide it down her arm. He planted a kiss just under the place where her dress should end, and she gasped.
He laughed and his finger traced her collarbone. ‘I am going to kiss you there again. Hard enough to mark you. No one will know it but we two, because your gown will hide all. Would you like that?’
‘Yes.’ She shocked herself by saying it, knowing that it was true. ‘Oh, yes.’
‘I thought you might.’ And he lowered his head again, and she felt him suck on the flesh, felt the feeling run through her all the way to her toes.
It was the work of a moment. And then it was over. He leaned his head against her ear and whispered, ‘If you would kiss, then do not give them cheaply to one such as Barton. Choose someone worthy of your affection.’ He walked her the last few steps through the trees and they came out at the bend of the drive. He whistled once and a carriage appeared from out of the darkness. Black and unmarked, with black horses and a driver muffled beyond recognition.
Smythe gave instructions to the driver and then he handed her up into the carriage, shutting the door behind her.
She leaned out of the window to where he stood in the road. ‘Are you not coming as well?’
‘My man will see you home.’ There was hunger in his eyes as he stared up into her face. ‘You are safer with him tonight than alone in a carriage with me.’
‘But how will you get home?’ And where is home? And are you alone there? She was bursting with unasked questions.
He smiled at her, his face dim in the light from the carriage lamps. ‘Never worry about me, your Grace. I have ways. Until we meet again.’ He bowed to her as the carriage pulled away and he disappeared into the darkness behind her.
She leaned back into the squabs, her heart hammering in her chest. He had been right about the danger in a kiss. His were as intoxicating as anything served at the party, and as compelling as Barton’s were not.
Perhaps what Barton accused her of was true. She was more than willing to bend the rules if she felt she would not be caught. And Mr Smythe would see to it that what they did was safe and in secret.
Perhaps it was no more than that. He was passionate, but solicitous of her reputation. Where other men wished to parade her fallen virtue as a trophy to their skills at seduction, with Smythe no one would know that they had been together. When he was done with her he would leave as quietly as he had come, moving through her life like a fish through water.
And when they parted tonight, he had not said goodbye. She could scarce control herself at the thought of seeing him again. She could still feel the kiss, hot and sinful, a brand on her shoulder to remind her of all the ways and places he might kiss her, should she allow it.
And why had she been so quick to agree? Was it because he had not asked at all?
Not at first, perhaps. But once he had started, he had asked her what would make her happy. He had not tried to negotiate her out of her honour, or worried that he was being outbid by some other man. He had not given her an ultimatum, or threatened her with shame or discovery.
He’d given her the first kiss as a sample of what was to come, and pointed out that he could give her even more pleasure, this instant, if she would allow him to. There had been no talk of bracelets or houses, or paying off her grocer and cutting back her staff. Or even what he wanted from her. He had kissed her again because he had wanted to, and because he had known she would like it more than she had when kissing Barton. Just a moment of shared bliss, and then he was gone.
She slipped her own fingers under the shoulder of her dress, imagining that his lips were still on her. He had said that she wouldn’t be safe with him, and she imagined him climbing in beside her and pulling her close in the darkness of the cab. She would be alone and completely at his mercy. And his hands would roam freely over her body, taking everything he wanted from her.
As though it mattered. She never wanted to be safe again.
She shook her head to clear the fantasy and leaned her face to the open window, feeling the breeze in her hair. She glanced at the passing streets. The direction seemed right, but how would the driver be able to find her house? She had not heard Smythe tell him the address.
She turned and knelt on the seat, opening the connecting window between the carriage and the driver. ‘I live on Grosvenor Square, just past—’
‘I know the way, your Grace. Do not concern yourself.’
He had used her title. And over the sound of the horses, she thought she heard a trace of amusement in his voice. He knew of her. And he knew other things as well.
‘Your master, Mr Smythe—have you known him long?’
There was no answer. And the driver tickled the horses with the tassel of his whip so that their speed increased.
He was loyal. Enough so as not to speak. And Smythe trusted him more than he did himself.
Then that answered the question. The man was no casual hire, but a trusted associate. A partner in crime, perhaps?
They were nearing her house, and she bit her lip in frustration. She knew nothing about Mr Smythe. He was not one of Barton’s familiars. And she had been too careless when he had been introduced to her and had not paid attention. She had not even heard his Christian name.
The carriage pulled smoothly to a stop in front of her home. The driver hopped down from the seat and opened the door for her, taking her hand and guiding her to the ground.
She looked at him, not sure what to expect. His face was no longer shielded from her, and she found it plain and honest. Surprisingly friendly. He was gazing back at her with a frank curiosity that she should have found inappropriate in a servant, had she not wanted words with him.
She tried again. ‘Please. About Mr Smythe. I know very little. Not his address. Or even his first name. If I should need to contact him…’ It was all horribly bold of her. The words died away in her throat.
The driver stared at her for a long moment, in a way that was totally devoid of subservience. And then his shoulders rose and fell once in a way that was part shrug and part silent laugh. He rummaged in his pocket, and came out with a white pasteboard, glancing at it before handing it to her. ‘His card, your Grace.’
She swallowed. ‘Thank you.’ She tried not to appear too eager, but snatched the card from his hand, and turned from him, concealing it in the bodice of her dress. And then she ran up the walk and into her house.
Once inside, she fled up the steps and into her room, shutting the door and reaching down the front of her dress to find the card, nestled close between her breasts.
‘Anthony de Portnay Smythe. Anthony Smythe. Tony. Anthony.’ She tried various versions of the name, tasting them, and enjoying the way they felt on her tongue.
Before Susan came to help her undress for bed, she looked for a place to secrete the card, finally slipping it under her pillow. She could not help smiling at the foolishness of it, as her maid undid the hooks of her gown. As a token of affection, a calling card was not much to speak of. And the man had not given it to her, after all. Perhaps he did not mean for her to know more of him.
Susan was undoing her stays and as she turned the maid gave the slightest gasp. The mark was there on her shoulder. ‘Did you have a pleasant evening, your Grace? At Lord Barton’s party?’ The remark was offhand, as though nothing unusual had sparked it.
‘Most pleasant,’ Constance answered, unable to resist a small sigh of pleasure.
‘So I suspected.’ Susan was faintly disapproving.
‘Despite the presence of Lord Barton,’ Constance corrected. ‘The man continues to be quite