When You Wish Page 8

  “If you do manage to overhear any gossip among the girls or if Fiona happens to begin acting queerly, would you let me know?”

  Although clearly curious, Madame merely nodded her head. “Certainly.”

  “Thank you. We must go.”

  Not waiting for the butler, Sarah turned to leave the room. Lord Chance was closely beside her as they moved back down the long hall in silence.

  She was lost in thoughts of her next logical step when Lord Chance abruptly reached out to grasp her arm. Coming to a halt, Sarah glanced up at his handsome countenance in surprise.

  “What is it?”

  His dark gaze moved over her pale features, lingering a heart-stopping moment on her lips before seeking her wide eyes.

  “I said when we first met that you were extraordinary. I did not fully comprehend just how extraordinary.”

  Unhinged as much by the sudden lurch of her heart as by the unexpected compliment, Sarah attempted to conjure a light tone. “Ridiculous. I am no way out of the common—unless you consider the fact I am the daughter of the Devilish Dandy.”

  His slender nose flared at her words. “You are Miss Sarah Cresswell, and never have I encountered a woman who would behave such as you.”

  She gave a breathy laugh. “Now that I readily believe.”

  Without warning, his hands reached up to cup her face. “I would admire them more if they did.”

  Her heart again gave that disturbing lurch and, barely aware she was moving, she leaned toward the heat of his body. She might be all that was sensible, but a force beyond her control held her spellbound as his dark head lowered and he claimed her mouth in a demanding kiss.

  The world halted as a storm of sensations flooded her body. It was not her first kiss, but the fumbling meeting of lips she had once experienced was seared to an inconsequential mistake beneath the mastery of his mouth. She trembled, her stomach clenching with a sharp ache.

  Lord Chance gave a soft moan as her lips willingly parted. His hands stroked the soft skin of her cheeks before trailing down the line of her neck. Sarah was oblivious to all but the feel of his lips and the trailing fire of his fingers. Nothing else mattered but that she discover where these wondrous feelings might lead her.

  Of course, it was bound to come to an end. Even as the tip of his tongue sought entrance to her mouth, the unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps brought them sharply to their senses. Pulling away, Sarah pressed a hand to her racing heart.

  Insanity, she numbly assured herself. She was clearly and irrevocably going mad.

  With great reluctance Sarah lifted her head to meet his disturbing black gaze, rather surprised to discover a dark flush on his noble features.

  Was he as shaken as she by the heat that had flared between them? Or simply embarrassed at having momentarily desired the daughter of a jewel thief?

  There was no time to inquire even if she possessed the nerve, as a scantily clad female tripped down the stairs. Not surprisingly, her eyes widened at the sight of Sarah and the tall gentleman at her side.

  “Lord Chance, how delightful,” the cyprian cried. “Are you here to see me?”

  A fierce shudder of pain racked through Sarah’s body. Was there any cyprian in all of London who was not acquainted with Lord Chance?

  Heavens above, she was a fool, she sternly chastised herself. How could she have allowed him such liberties? No, not allowed, she corrected, invited. Why, she had behaved more brazenly than any of the doxies upstairs.

  Furious with herself as well as with the man who had stirred to life such unwelcome sensations, Sarah sent Lord Chance an icy glare. “Shall we go? Or would you prefer I have the carriage sent back to fetch you?”

  With a decided scowl, he grasped her arm and began hauling her toward the door. “Good gads, let us go.”

  Sarah was tugged through the door and down the path at a crisp pace before she angrily wrenched her arm free. “I am perfectly capable of walking on my own, sir.”

  “I do not . . . know that woman,” he muttered in low tones.

  Sarah battled the impulsive flare of happiness at his confession. What if he had not enjoyed the favors of the pretty courtesan? It in no way diminished her own reprehensible behavior. “It is really none of my concern, Lord Chance.”

  His dark eyes suddenly smoldered in an alarming manner. “If we were not in such a public setting I should prove it is very much your concern,” he rasped in a tone that sent a quiver down her spine. “But for now I believe I should escort you home so I can go to my club and drink away all thoughts of missing diamonds, brothels, and lips that could drive a man to distraction.”

  Seven

  True to his word, Chance did indeed spend the better part of his evening at his club. Also true to his word, he consumed an admirable amount of brandy in a valiant attempt to forget the disturbing day.

  Predictably, the brandy did nothing more than cause his head to pound, and the memories of the day haunted him far into the night.

  In peculiar detail, he had recalled the pleasure of holding Miss Cresswell in his arms—the feel of her slender form, the scent of her skin, the willing softness of her lips, and the fierce heat that had raced through his blood as he had at last kissed her.

  That kiss ...

  Chance was no innocent. He had enjoyed the pleasures of mistresses, most of them as beautiful as they were experienced. And while he considered his time devoted to them as pleasurable, they certainly had not troubled his thoughts when they were not near. And not one had ever made his heart shudder to a halt with the merest touch of her lips.

  It was absurd, he decided as he rose from his bed and attired himself in a jade coat and fawn breeches. Miss Cresswell was handsome enough, but not the delicate beauty he preferred. And while her swift intelligence and generous nature might inspire his admiration, she possessed none of the allurements necessary to attract a gentleman of discretion.

  So why, then, did he long to gather her into his arms and kiss her insensible?

  Insanity was the only explanation.

  Miss Cresswell might not be socially acceptable, but she was a lady nevertheless, he was forced to remind himself. A lady who would no doubt box his ears if he so much as hinted he would be willing to take her as a mistress.

  His unexpected passions would have to be sternly dismissed.

  Well, perhaps not entirely dismissed, a renegade voice whispered in the back of his mind.

  Surely a stolen kiss or two would not be entirely scandalous. After all, their acquaintance was destined to end at Christmas, one way or another. It would be a sin not to indulge in an occasional temptation.

  For once ignoring the crate awaiting him in the library, Chance partook of a light breakfast and called for his carriage. He wished to speak with Miss Cresswell before her sense of respectability managed to convince her he was beyond the pale.

  He had just stepped out of the door, however, when a lad hastily ran up the steps to press a note into his hands. With raised brows, he read the crisp words that warned him Miss Cresswell would be unavailable due to her commitment to her school.

  Chance hesitated only a moment before entering his carriage and directing his groom to Miss Cresswell’s establishment, where he was firmly determined to discover the location of the mysterious school.

  In all, it took over an hour before Chance entered the sturdy building situated in an astonishingly horrid neighborhood. He wrinkled his fastidious nose at the garbage littering the streets and the coarse laughter floating from a nearby gin house. Trust Miss Cresswell to plant herself in the seediest street in London, he ruefully acknowledged. He could only pray she possessed the sense to bring Watts when she visited the school.

  Thrusting open the door, Lord Chance stepped inside and halted in amazement.

  In shocking contrast to the neighborhood, the school was pristinely clean and the few rooms he could see were filled with children busily setting about the task of learning. Even the pervading stench was thankf
ully overwhelmed by the tempting aroma of baking bread—a decided haven for children forced to live in such wretched poverty.

  Any disapproval at Miss Cresswell’s exposing herself to such an environment was readily swept aside at the realization of what she was accomplishing. Perhaps there would be those who would condemn a young maiden for exposing herself to such an environment, but Chance felt nothing but a stab of amazed appreciation.

  A most extraordinary lady, indeed.

  A familiar, sharp-faced urchin stepped into the hall, distracting Chance’s thoughts.

  “Hello, guv,” Lucky greeted with his usual lack of awe at being confronted by a noble.

  “Lucky.”

  A mischievous smile tugged at the boy’s lips. “Taken a fancy for orphans, have you?”

  “Brat.” Chance chuckled. “Where is Miss Cresswell?”

  “This way.”

  With swift movements, Lucky was moving down the hall, and Chance discovered himself forced to hurry to keep pace. They passed through a classroom of children practicing their alphabet before Lucky opened a door to reveal Miss Cresswell seated upon a chair, several children at her feet listening to her tale of Queen Elizabeth. For a moment he merely studied her in silence. Although she was attired in a plain gray gown with only the brilliant sapphire necklace to relieve the severity, she had never appeared lovelier.

  Then, as if sensing his presence, her head abruptly lifted and she stiffened in surprise. An odd pang flared through his heart at the knowledge she was less than pleased at his presence.

  “My lord.”

  Chance performed a graceful bow. “Miss Cresswell.”

  “What . . . what are you doing here?”

  “I came to see you.”

  “Did you not receive my message?”

  “I received it,” he admitted. “And easily surmised your reason for sending it.”

  The color abruptly deepened as she rose to her feet. “Perhaps we should speak in my office.”

  “If you wish.”

  Ignoring Lucky’s speculative gaze, Chance followed Miss Cresswell’s stiff form through the room and into a cramped chamber nearly overwhelmed by a massive desk. Firmly closing the door behind him, Chance regarded the maiden, who was doing her best to maneuver a discreet distance between them despite the lack of space.

  At last realizing that short of climbing upon the desk she had no recourse but to endure their intimate proximity, Miss Cresswell lifted her head to regard him in a wary manner. “What do you want?”

  Chance slowly smiled, inhaling the sweet scent of her skin. “The children appear to be very fond of you.”

  She blinked in surprise at his unexpected words. “Children are prepared to be fond of anyone who offers them kindness,” she informed him in low tones.

  “You offer them more than kindness.”

  “Not only me. There are many involved in the school.”

  “But I have no doubt you are the force that makes it possible,” he said with quiet conviction.

  Clearly embarrassed by his praise, she hastily attempted to distract his attention. “Why did you wish to see me?”

  Chance allowed his lids to lower, well aware that the next few moments were destined to be difficult. The passion stirring between them had frightened her. Now he had to find some means of reassuring her he meant no harm. “You have struck me as a remarkably intelligent young woman,” he softly drawled. “I believe you can deduce my reason for seeking you out today.”

  Her blue eyes darkened, but she managed to face him with admirable composure. “If you are referring to yesterday, then I must warn you that I have no desire to discuss the ... our ...”

  “Kiss?” he helpfully supplied.

  “Yes.”

  He lifted a dark brow. “We can hardly pretend it did not occur.”

  She unconsciously wetted her lips, making Chance’s muscles stir in the most unexpected fashion. Good gads, he was in worse condition than he had thought.

  “I do not see why,” she muttered.

  “Perhaps because I do not wish to pretend it did not occur.”

  She predictably stiffened at his blunt honesty, her eyes widening. “My lord, as you said, I am an intelligent woman. Far too intelligent to be charmed by a practiced rogue.”

  A practiced rogue. Chance gave an abrupt frown at the insult. He might have accepted the occasional lures of those females who desired a liaison, but he was no rake. Indeed, he had always been excessively careful to avoid susceptible maidens. “You believe I desire to trifle with you?”

  She met his gaze squarely. “Do you not?”

  Chance was not certain what he desired, beyond the impossible, but he was confident he would never intentionally hurt her. “I will not insult you with lies,” he informed her as he took a step closer. Close enough to feel a fine tremor run through her body. “I do find you remarkably attractive and, given the opportunity, I would not hesitate to kiss you again.”

  “Sir . . .”

  He lifted a finger to press it to her lips. “And I believe you did not find our kiss entirely repulsive.”

  She shook her head in denial. “It was wrong.”

  He gave a rueful grimace, wishing he could crush her into his arms and prove just how very right it could be. Instead he forced himself to give a shrug. “I assure you I am no rogue attempting to seduce every maiden I encounter. Indeed, it caught me off guard as much as you.”

  Far from comforted, she brushed aside his lingering finger with a determined hand. “I will become no man’s mistress.”

  He gazed deep into her troubled eyes. “I did not believe for a moment you would.”

  “No?”

  “No,” he said firmly. “Although I will admit that while I have rarely been acquainted with a maiden who would attire herself as a servant, keep a young boy within her household who her father had won in a card game, and consort with cyprians, I have never doubted you were a lady.”

  She searched his countenance for a long moment before her rigid expression abruptly softened.

  “Thank you.”

  There was no mistaking the genuine sincerity in her tone, and Chance felt a momentary pang at the knowledge that a disreputable part of him wished she were not quite such a lady. He swiftly dismissed the unworthy thought, however. He had never pretended to be without fault, no matter what his ridiculous title. “I kissed you, Miss Cresswell, because I could no longer resist temptation, not because I assumed you would be willing to become my mistress.”

  He heard her breath catch in her throat. “It must never happen again.”

  “That I cannot promise.”

  “My lord ...”

  “I will, however, attempt to resist temptation.” He overrode her protest.

  There was a strained silence as she regarded him with a wary expression. “I believe you must be jesting with me.”

  His smile was self-derisive. “I most fervently wish I were. However, I believe we have said all that is to be said on the subject. Have you considered what is to be done next in regards to the diamonds?”

  Caught off guard by the abrupt change in conversation, she took a moment to respond.

  “I fear I have not.”

  “Not to worry. I shall seek out my brother’s club and have a word with his friends.” His hand reached up to stroke a stray chestnut curl. “Do not fret, Miss Cresswell. All will be well.”

  * * *

  Although it was still early, Chance discovered his brother’s club already filled with brilliantly attired dandies. Most were settled around the card tables, but a brief glance was enough to assure him that at least two of the gentlemen he sought were settled beside a window drinking heavily from a decanter of brandy.

  At his entrance, a small gentleman attired in black rushed to greet him.

  “Sir . . . welcome.”

  “Thank you.” Chance allowed the proprietor to relieve him of his coat and hat.

  “May I offer you a refreshment?”

&nbs
p; “Perhaps later.”

  “Such an honor, my lord.” The man gave a deep bow, clearly delighted at having a Corinthian grace his establishment.

  With a casual stroll, Chance weaved his way past the ogling bucks until he at last stood beside the table of Fritz and Moreland.

  Like his brother, the two were in their early twenties and dressed in the outrageous fashion of Tulips. Unfortunately, neither possessed Ben’s slender physique, nor his charming good looks. As a result, they merely appeared absurd in their bright clothing and layers of fobs and braiding. Even worse, there was a vacuous expression upon their round countenances that revealed they possessed little thought beyond their own pleasure.

  At his approach, the two dandies struggled to their feet to perform a startled bow.

  “May I?” Chance drawled, indicating the remaining chair at the table.

  “Oh ... certainly, certainly,” Moreland stammered.

  Taking his seat, he regarded his startled companions with his familiar aloof manner. “Have I missed my brother?”

  “No, sir, haven’t seen him these past days.” Fritz’s brow furrowed as he performed the difficult task of thinking. “Devilish queer. He ain’t poorly, is he?”

  Chance did not doubt that his brother was suffering from nothing more than a healthy dose of guilt. “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Come to think of it, haven’t seen Goldie, neither,” Moreland piped in.

  Fritz gave a loud snort. “No wonder in that. Badly dipped, you know.”

  “Who ain’t?” Moreland sighed.

  “Lord, that’s true enough.” Fritz took a swig of his brandy, seeming to have forgotten his illustrious guest as the two commiserated over the evils of insufficient funds. “Had to call on Grandmother yesterday for a bit of the ready. Gads, you never seen such a fuss over a few hundred pounds.”

  Moreland shuddered in sympathy, while Chance leaned back in his chair with cool indifference. In truth, he was attending with sharp intensity, carefully taking note of every word and expression.

  “Better to face the vultures than a clutch-fisted grandmother,” Moreland proclaimed.